


stress relief

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Angst, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Friends With Benefits, Gags, Happy Ending, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Tony Stark, Oral Knotting, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 75,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17716553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: They don't love each other. They barely even like each other.





	1. start

After, when Loki is locked somewhere in the bowels of the ship, and Tony is definitely alive, and the portal that was in the sky is gone, shut, finished, they’re standing on the brig, looking out at the clouds.  
   
Rogers’ arms are crossed, his lips pressed together. “Relax,” Tony says, casually. “All’s well that ends well, my friend.”  
   
He can practically _hear_ the thought ‘I’m not your friend’ drifting through the Captain’s brain. Instead, he goes for the more diplomatic. “You’re surprisingly chipper.”  
   
“If I wasn’t chipper, I’d cry,” Tony grins, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” He offers, holding it under Rogers’ nose.  
   
He bats him away. “You can’t smoke here,” he tells him, shortly.  
   
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be a stickler.”  
   
“You’re going to set off an alarm. Don’t.”  
   
Tony waggles his eyebrows, lights up anyway; Rogers plucks it, straight from between his teeth, and puts it out on the back of his own hand.  
   
Okay. “Look at you,” Tony grouses, “big macho alpha, huh? That’s impractical, Steve. There’s a trashcan, like, right there. You could have just thrown it away.”  
   
“Fire hazard,” Rogers snaps. “You shouldn’t have lit the damn thing in the first place.”  
   
“Oh boo hoo. This carrier just withstood a hulk, I think a cigarette would be okay.”  
   
“Do you really want to test it?”  
   
“Yes. I like testing things, actually. It’s kinda my job.”  
   
“Oh really?” Rogers mutters.  
   
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony turns on him.  
   
“It’s just, from where I’m standing, you’re more like a damn time-waster with a bone to pick. I don’t know why. Maybe you just like the attention.”  
   
Tony finds himself rolling his eyes. “Oh, so astute, Captain,” he says. “Wow, you just _get_ me, huh? Amazing.” He starts fishing in his pocket for another light.  
   
“Don’t,” Rogers warns.  
   
Tony pokes him, right on his sternum. “Back-off, buddy.”  
   
Rogers grabs his wrist. “Don’t,” he says, more forcefully.  
   
Tony’s breath catches, briefly. He’s shorter that Rogers – no surprise, little omega doesn’t match up to souped-up-super-soldier. Contrary to what his Napoleon complex sometimes tells him, he can’t actually go toe-to-toe without the suit. And he very much does not have the suit at this moment in time.  
   
“You… gonna let me go?” There’s an instinctual, hind part of Tony’s brain that is flaring mild panic signals.  
   
“I don’t know,” Rogers frowns. “Do you want me to?”  
   
“Uh,” Tony says, because it’s not the answer he was expecting.  
   
“You keep pushing me,” Rogers asks. “Why is that?”  
   
“You’re just so damn pushable,” Tony smirks, trying to keep it light. He carefully tries to wrest back control, but even though Rogers’ grip is loose, his fingers are iron. _Note to self: try not to anger untested super-soldiers fresh from the horrors of war._ Got it.  
   
Rogers thumb is – massaging Tony’s wrist. A figure of eight. Over and over. Tony gets distracted, momentarily. Just momentarily.  
   
“That’s not an answer. Can you give me an answer?” Rogers asks, calmly. His eyes are cool. Tony has the instinctive response to look away, focus on his wrist.  
   
“Is there a reason you’re molesting my arm?”  
   
“You shouldn’t touch me if you don’t want me to touch you back.”  
   
Tony laughs, then. “What is that? Some kind of – janky pick-up line?”  
   
Steve shrugs. “Depends,” he says, almost lazy, “do you want it to be?”  
   
Tony wets his lip. “Do you?”  
   
Rogers doesn’t smile. Does he ever smile? Briefly, Tony thinks he’s going to let go of his wrist, but he doesn’t; he lowers it, uses it to tug Tony closer. “What about now?” He asks, quietly. “Do I seem ‘pushable’ now?”  
   
“Uh, from this view? No, not so much.”  
   
“I’m – kinda trying to figure out what to do with you, Stark.”  
   
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve’s thumb is back, this time drawing long strokes from his palm downwards.  
   
“Now, just what kind of alpha would I be if I let my subordinate get away with that kind of talk, huh?”  
   
Tony’s eyes narrow. “Subordinate.”  
   
Now, Steve smirks. “Sure,” he says. “I don’t figure too much has changed in the past 70-years, Stark. I’m know you’re useful to have around for all sorts of reasons, but you’re going to need an alpha to take you in hand if this is going to work.”  
   
Tony is about to launch into a tirade, but he catches himself. “You’re shitting me, right? That’s – that was a joke.”  
   
Steve is smiling at him.  
   
“It was a joke,” Tony decides, “you just love to press my buttons, huh?”  
   
“You poked mine first.” He doesn’t let go of Tony’s wrist; if anything, his grip shifts, tightens. “All that talk in the lab, ‘put on suit’. Everything special about me came out a bottle, right?”  
   
“You haven’t show me anything to the contrary,” Tony tells him, blasé, like he’s isn’t intimately aware of Steve’s breath, the touch of his skin on his arm.  
   
“Do you want me to?”  
   
He’s looking at him, straight in the eye, direct. His thumb is – pressing, slightly. Grinding the bones in his wrist. There’s a shiver running down Tony’s spine. “That depends,” he says, proud his voice is still even, “how would you show me?”  
   
Steve isn’t smiling. He’s serious. And underneath the mild vestiges of fight, and the scent of irritation, there’s something thicker, darker. Maybe lust.  
   
He pulls him. Drags him close, almost chest to chest, holding his wrist above his head. “Tell me to stop,” he says, reasonably.  
   
“No.”  
   
He sees Steve’s hand coming up for his other wrist, tries to dodge; naturally, he fails, lets Steve hold his arms firm. “Is this what it’s all been about?” He asks and, yeah, definitely lust now. “You just want a good fuck, Stark?”  
   
“Who said anything about fucking?”  
   
“Tell me to stop,” Steve tells him again.  
   
He could. He could call this all off now. Future Tony would probably thank him for staving off the inevitable terrible ramifications of sleeping with Captain America. But Steve says, ‘tell me stop’, like he expects it. Like he thinks Tony can’t take it.  
   
“We should find somewhere more private.”  
   
Steve shrugs. “Isn’t here fine?” He moves, pushing forward, Tony stumbling back and back until his back hits the glass window. “You’re not shy, are you?” He mocks.  
   
“I figured it was more for your benefit. I’m a known slut, you… have a reputation to uphold.”  
   
“People will understand.”  
   
“Understand?”  
   
“We just saved the city. I still stink of fight. We’re not gonna get court-martialled for – for –”  
   
“Stress relief,” Tony supplies.  
   
That gets the first smile he’s seen out of Steve. “Is that what you call it these days?”  
   
“For the record, that whole – pack, feral, fuck-it-out shtick doesn’t fly so much anymore. But I’m, uh,” Tony’s breath is heavy, “willing to let it slide. This once.”  
   
“I bet you are,” Steve smirks. He pinches Tony’s chin, tips back his head. “Eager.”  
   
“You know,” Tony recovers, batting away his hand, “I just assumed you were a virgin.”  
   
“I’ve had sex,” Steve says, bluntly. “I’m alpha, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah, but how much were you pulling _before_ that special injection, huh?” Tony wheedles. “You think you could have got someone like me when you were 90lbs soaking wet?”  
   
Steve’s eyes flash. A sore point, maybe. “What’s so good about you worth getting?”  
   
“I’m rich,” Tony rattles off, “I’m a genius. I _know_ I’m pretty, Rogers. The full package.”  
   
“Yet, you’re nearly forty and trying to rile up a guy you’ve known – a couple days at best, into giving you a good fucking in conference room at work,” Steve says, eyes slipping lower to where a thumb is now picking at the button of his shirt. “The full package.”  
   
“I’m picky,” Tony shoots back.  
   
“Not that picky, obviously,” Steve retorts. “Unless I’m worth picking?”  
   
“More like an experience,” Tony sneers. “Normally I go for people a touch more refined, but it might be fun to slum it just once.”  
   
Steve’s hand grasps at his cheeks, pinches them together, tugs his head forward viciously. “Always have an answer, huh?”  
   
“Always.” He smacks away Steve’s hand.  
   
He stumbles back, slightly, lips quirking. “So you want to slum it,” he half-laughs. “You like it rough, Stark?”  
   
“Sure. Not that I’ve ever had someone give me what I really want.”  
   
“Of course not,” Steve crows, “you’re the full package. Alphas just quake as you walk by, right? They’re _intimidated.”_  
   
Tony shrugs. “I never said that. Maybe you feel that way.”  
   
“I could never be intimidated by you, Stark,” Steve laughs. “You’re an omega in a suit. You wouldn’t be so hard to shut up, all things considered.”  
   
“So stop talking about it,” Tony hits back. “ _Do_ it.”  
   
“You sure, son?” Steve says patronisingly. “We can forget this if you like.”  
   
“Oh please, you’re desperate for it,” Tony scoffs, “I can smell it off you. Who was the last person you fucked? Probably dead in the ground by now.”  
   
Maybe that’s too far; most likely, it is, because Rogers shutters off, eyes going blinkered, hard. “You asked for it,” he says roughly, sliding his hand into Tony’s hair, _gripping._ It’s intimate-yet-not. He shivers.  
   
“I asked for it,” he agrees.  
   
Pushing him against the window, Steve puts two, three fingers into his mouth. “Suck,” he tells him, clinically, his free hand working at the buttons of Tony’s pants.  
   
He humours him, lathering the digits with spit. When Steve smirks up at him, as if to say ‘silent so soon?’ he bites them, just to prove a point. It’s gratifying to hear him gasp with the pain of it.  
   
“You little bitch,” Steve snarls, sucking the blood from his fingers. “I was gonna go easy on you.”  
   
Tony throws back his head and laughs. “Sure,” he says, “or you’re just not alpha enough to do it right.”  
   
He pulls Tony’s shirt off his head; he gets thrown around a bit in the tussle, letting Steve slam him back against the glass. He seems to take him, all of him: Tony knows he’s a catch. It’s gratifying to see Steve lick his lower lip, eyes hungry.  
   
The glass is cool on his spine. “Stop,” Steve says. “Strip the rest of the way. I want to see.”  
   
“You first,” Tony challenges.  
   
Steve shakes his head. “I’m not getting naked. Strip, or I’ll strip you, walk, and leave you to explain to the next tech passing through why you’re tied naked to a chair.”  
   
He’s not joking. There’s something careless about the way he says it, blasé. He can imagine Steve having done that before, to a bratty omega, acting out on the field. _Strip, or I’ll strip you. On your knees. Swallow, don’t spit._  
   
Tony hooks his thumbs under his waistband, pushes down his pants. “Sure,” he says, “okay. Kinky. You want to explain to Fury why you stole the clothes of the innocent omega who just _saved_ New York?”  
   
“Fury would thank me,” Steve says dismissively, eyes zeroing in on Tony’s groin. “You need to be taken down a few notches.”  
   
“Why is it always me?! You’re an asshole, no one’s – oof.” Steve’s bracketing his head with his arms, the window freezing against his bare ass, sucking a line down his throat. “Oh,” Tony says, because his tongue has found his sweet-spot, just behind his ear, “oh, fuck.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve smirks. “I thought so.”  
   
“Did I tell you to stop?”  
   
“You’re not giving the orders,” he says, abruptly pinning Tony’s wrists to the wall. “Shut up, and take it.”  
   
He bites down, abruptly. Tony swallows a sharp moan, exhales heavily instead. His eyes are shut, his head tipped back; Steve runs over the bite with his tongue, sucks hard, the swell of skin against his lips bordering into pain.  
   
So Tony sighs, can’t help it, really. Could you blame him? He can feel himself, hard and wet. “Asshole,” he breathes.  
   
Steve grunts, picks up Tony’s thighs to pin him against the window, suspended in his grasp; he digs his nails into the soft flesh there, seems to enjoy his gasp of pain when he follows up with another sharp nip at his sweet-spot. Tony can dig his heels into the small of Steve’s back; he can grip his hair, and pull, and savour Steve sounds of pain.  
   
“Do something,” he urges, grinding his ass against the front of Steve’s pants, “you just gonna – gonna stand there?”  
   
Steve shifts his grip so he’s supporting Tony’s lower back with one arm, spits on his hand. “Aww,” he simpers, “you’re a desperate little fella’, aren’t you?”  
   
Before Tony responds, he’s putting two fingers inside him no prep. Tony is tight – he could have done with the stretch. Still, Steve is anything if not efficient. He fucks him carelessly, almost lazily, seeming to enjoy the sound of Tony trying not to moan at the feel of his fingers, helpless, forced to accept the pleasure. “Is that good, sweetheart?” He drawls, accent all Brooklyn-sharp.  
   
“This it?” Tony pants, pulling up his head, meeting Steve head on. “C’mon, buttercup, you can do better than that.”  
   
Steve drops him. Abruptly, with no warning, lets him fall to the floor, hit himself hard on the cold metal grilling under the window. He splays out, one sweating palm on the window for purchase, cursing blindly. “Are you insane?!” He spits, starting to stand. “Are you fucking out of your – “  
   
Hand in his hair, bending him, face on the ground. Steve at his back, hot, heavy; Tony can smell him now, thick, all alpha and raw lust. He can hear the slick sound of Steve taking himself in hand, groaning at the feel, while Tony squirms on the floor, nails clawing.  
   
“That’s it,” Steve is saying, mostly to himself, because he still has Tony’s cheek smushed into the floor, “ugh, God, that’s it.” He pushes in, and it’s like – he’s big. He’s big, Tony always assumed he would be, but assuming and knowing are too different things. They both groan, Tony tightens, for a brief few seconds it seems like maybe they’ve reached an accord in the pursuit of mutual pleasure.  
   
It’s pretty fucking obvious early on that Steve is not going to have any consideration for Tony’s pleasure. He fucks him. Relentless, with no pause for breath, fucks him into the cold, dirty floor. He pulls at Tony’s hair, pulls back his head, makes him bare his throat and _force_ the submission, and when Tony just laughs instead of the customary breathy whimpers and whines he knows Steve wants to win, he’ll push his head into the floor and smear it there, thoughtless, thrusting into him with no mind to anyone’s pleasure but his own.  
   
It feels good, though. Maybe. Just a little.  
   
To be used.  
   
His chest is hot against the line of Tony’s back, sweating. Tony’s cock remains untouched, hanging between his thighs. _Bastard,_ he thinks, furiously. He tries to push back against the weight of him, but Steve won’t have it; “Bad boy,” he chides, laughing at him, and then reaching his hands forward to hook his fingers in Tony’s cheeks.  
   
He pulls back his head, his mouth split wide by Steve’s thick digits, effectively gagged, bridled like a pony. He tries to voice a complaint, shoving back into Steve, which only seems to heighten his pleasure. There’s spit running down his chin, he can hear himself – gagging, in time with Steve’s thrusts, and this can’t be allowed, he can’t just sit there and take this, this – this – _indignity,_ and humiliation –  
   
“Anything to say?” Steve asks, innocently, voice slightly ragged. “C’mon, Tony – I know you’ve got something to say. Anything. You always have an answer, right Stark?”  
   
Tony wants to say, _fuck me harder,_ or, _I’ve had better,_ or, _screw you._ But his knees are aching, his back is stiff, he can’t speak at all. He’s licking desperately at the tips of Steve’s fingers, eyes rolling back into his head, and –  
   
He relaxes. Lets his whole body go loose, throws in a few moans, a few breathy whimpers. Steve grunts, slows his thrusts; pulls out, long and unhurried, takes back his hands and brackets them on either side of Tony’s heads. “That’s it,” he’s breathing, “let me hear you, go on, Stark. Let’s hear it.”  
   
“Steve,” he exhales, grinding his hips back, making himself remain completely loose, submissive and pliant beneath him. “Oh, Steve.”  
   
“Say it,” Steve says, voice more gentle, one hand now _stroking_ his hair instead of pulling. “Let me hear you whimper some more, Stark.”  
   
“You gonna knot me?” Tony asks, simpering, knowing it’ll send him crazy.  
   
“You’d like that,” Steve tells him roughly, fucking back in, scratching the back of his head and sighing, biting his lip. “Yeah you would. Be fucked and knotted on the floor like a dirty slut, taking it outside of heat, show you who’s boss. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Stark?”  
   
“Uh huh,” Tony insists, clenching down, pushing back, working on getting Steve deeper, closer. “Want to see you.”  
   
Steve pulls out, twists Tony’s hips, manhandles him onto his back. He pinches one of his cheeks, pats it lightly. “You’re all red,” he smirks.  
   
“You’re an idiot,” Tony bites back, lunging up to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “God, you’ll believe anything,” he breathes, grinding himself against his belly.  
   
“Too good to be true,” Steve huffs, fisting his hand in the back of his hair, biting sharply at the juncture between neck and shoulder. “Fucking knew it.”  
   
“Nah, you didn’t,” Tony is panting, gasping when he seats himself slowly, inch by inch on Steve’s cock. “You’re so fucking _gullible,_ Rogers, how naïve can you get – “  
   
Steve thrusts up, but it’s Tony who get the pleasure. Like this, cock trapped between their stomachs, the new position pushing Steve against his prostate again and again, Tony can ride him till – till –  
   
He comes, hot and sticky between them. He feels _boneless,_ floating; it’s easy, then, to let Steve take over, fuck him through the aftershocks, use him to chase his own completion. As far as Tony’s concerned, he’s won: he came, despite Steve’s best attempts to the contrary.  
   
It barely lasts 10 minutes, all things told. When Steve finishes, he finishes with style, a heavy grunt, one final thrust. Tony is bizarrely tempted to tell him to keep it in, let him knot – but the realities of being tied root and stem when some poor cleaning-person comes wandering through isn’t a great one.  
   
“Happy?” Tony croaks, shutting his eyes as Steve pulls out, softened. His ass feels loose, wet, sloppy. He makes an effort to clench, hold in Steve’s spend as best he can – he can’t stop thinking about the damn cleaning crew who are going to have to clean up their fluids.  
   
Steve grunts. “Better,” he says, brusquely. He doesn’t linger over Tony’s prone form; he’s standing, quickly, tucking himself away, leaving Tony on the floor.  
   
“My clothes,” he says, rolling onto his back. The floor isn’t cold anymore, not after what they’ve done – if anything, it’s too warm, uncomfortably so. Tony feels like he needs a shower. A freezing one.  
   
Steve looks down at the bundle of clothes, disinterested, then kicks them vaguely in his direction. “I’ll see you at the tower,” he says, shortly.  
   
And he leaves. Just like that.  
   
Tony doesn’t know what he expected. A post-coitus cuddle? An admission that Tony was the winner? Recriminations, or maybe even a loosening of Captain Tight-Ass’s ass? Even a smile and a thank you? A couple of hastily thrown fifties as payment for services rendered?  
   
He dresses by himself quickly, furtive. He pulls on his jacket. It hides the crumpled clothes, but does nothing for his scent, all fucked-out and dozy.  
   
So he pulls out the cigarettes, lights up. It sets off the sprinklers, but jokes on them: after the impromptu shower, no one can smell Steve on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my [tumblr](www.writingromanoff.com)


	2. gag

He sees Steve coming and going. Mostly, they ignore each other. Sometimes, they fight.  
   
When he’s not working, sleeping, or eating, Rogers seems to spend his time at a day club, where he talks to veterans. He helps out, apparently. Talks about the good old days. He’s made some friends there; centennial, close-to-death, friends.  
   
The whole thing feels very sad. It’s more than Rogers being too pure for his own good – he’s not just helping them out of the goodness of his heart, although that probably plays a role. He’s there because he’s lonely, or desperate, or both. Because he’s not adjusting, or whatever.  
   
Look, it’s not Tony’s responsibility. He likes to keep tabs on everyone. It isn’t a _Steve_ specific thing. He knows that Natasha likes to go to the movies by herself, and Clint keeps disappearing to Iowa, and that Bruce has an alpha fetish. He knows all kinds of things. He keeps tabs because they’re living in his home, and it’s important to – to know what you’re dealing with.  
   
He’s started waiting up for him. He’s not sure why. Maybe because he feels sorry for him, or he likes goading him, likes ruining that itchingly perfect façade. Maybe, it’s because he can’t sleep these days, and every night there’s a wormhole in the dark behind his eyelids, pulsing and growing and twisting bright blue and black.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. He sips his scotch. _Steve,_ he thinks, focuses on the name. _Rogers._ He’s later than usual. Their meetings don’t normally run this long. In the meantime, Tony has drunk. Has drunk? _Is_ drunk. Not crazy drunk, just…  
   
Enough that when Steve walks out the elevator holding a brown carrier bag, he picks up his head and grins. “Rogers,” he slurs, “you’re late.”  
   
“I didn’t realise we had an appointment.”  
   
“We don’t.” Tony downs his glass, pours some more. “But you’re usually so – punctual. Keep to your schedule, like a good little boy.”  
   
“I went shopping.”  
   
“Ooh, got some new tighty-whities?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Sorry, apologies,” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, “are they red white and blue with an eagle on the ass?”  
   
“No. Do you want to fuck?”  
   
Tony doesn’t let it phase him. He laughs. “Using big boy words, huh? Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s bad to curse?”  
   
“I’ll take that as a no, then.”  
   
“I didn’t say that.” Tony is only half teasing, now. “Just curious, my steady alpha friend. What’s gotten into you? Have a fight on the way home? A bust-up on the street? Or did the little omega oldies at the care-home turn you on?” He says, mildly malicious.  
   
Steve stands by the couch, looming. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Had fun last time, didn’t you?”  
   
“Didn’t _you?”_  
   
“Yeah, I did.” Steve is characteristically brief. “You can take it. I’m always – it can be difficult. Because of how I am. Not every O can – take it.”  
   
“Must be hard, huh? Being so well-hung. My heart bleeds.”  
   
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Steve snaps.  
   
Tony snorts. He makes himself laugh, sometimes. Sipping his scotch he sighs, tips his head back and back until it’s resting over the couch arm, the world spinning. He grins up at Steve’s upside down head, blood rushing to his brain. “So?” He says. “I know you’re dying to tell me, darling. What’s in the bag?”  
   
It’s brown, crumpled. Very inconspicuous, could be anything. Steve’s cheeks – flush slightly, maybe. It could just be because the fire is close, and too warm. It’s nice, Tony thinks, the way he gets that blush high on his cheekbones. It reminds him he’s not just a righteous, angry alpha with a complex. He has a nice side, probably.  
   
“See for yourself.” Steve tosses it into his lap, sits himself in the armchair nearest the windows. “I don’t think the guy in the shop knew who I was.”  
   
Tony frowns, picks apart the contents of the package. “I didn’t know you had gags in the thirties,” he swallows, keeping his voice even.  
   
“Do you like it?” Steve inquires.  
   
“Not really.”  
   
“Good. That’s the point.”  
   
It’s a metal thing, ugly. Not the kind that you see in the softcore porn he sometimes watches, with the sweet, breathy omegas will big red balls in their mouths. This is the kind of thing you might put on someone if you wanted to torture them, maybe by slowly extracting each of their teeth. Four prongs, two on each side to hold the mouth wide. Adjustable, in case you want it extra freaky.  
   
“This isn’t very… spontaneous.”  
   
“Meaning?”  
   
“I don’t know. Half the fun is not having to rely on cheap gimmicks. You should be able to shut me up without a gag, Rogers.”  
   
“You really don’t like it, huh?”  
   
“It’s lazy.”  
   
Steve shrugs, holds out his hand. “Okay,” he says, “if you insist. I’m sure I can find some other way of shutting you up.”  
   
“You sure are obsessed with my mouth.”  
   
“You always have an answer.”  
   
Tony laughs, but the truth is, he doesn’t find it funny. “I never took you for a chauvinist, Rogers. Old-fashioned, pompous, a little too righteous, sure. But never a flat out bigot.”  
   
Steve upside down face frowns at him. “I’m not a chauvinist.”  
   
“What, you just like your omegas ass-up and silent?”  
   
“No. I like _you_ ass-up and silent. It’s not an omega thing, it’s a – Tony won’t shut up, and spends half his time trying to come up with new and cruel insults to snap at me over a table. So, in my head, I like to imagine him forced to shut his mouth.”  
   
Tony shivers, slightly. Shuts his eyes, swallows. “That’s not true,” he says, dragging them open, slow and languorous. “I’m not cruel.”  
   
“You are,” Steve says, flatly.  
   
He sighs, puts his scotch on the table and rolls onto his knees, kneeling up on the couch. “I’m not,” he says again. “When have I ever – “  
   
“Two nights ago you asked if I wanted ice in my drink, then laughed and said, ‘oh, of course not, how stupid of me’.”  
   
Tony sucks his teeth. “It was a joke.”  
   
“You call me Capsicle.”  
   
“Because it’s _funny.”_  
   
“It’s not funny. It’s awful. I dream about it every night. But I’m glad it gives you some enjoyment in your sad, pathetic life.”  
   
Tony snorts. “Sure, Cap. Sad and pathetic life, that’s me.”  
   
Steve’s eyes glaze, distant. “You talk in your sleep, you know. I heard you last week. You were moaning like a two-bit whore, but I don’t joke about it.”  
   
Tony hardens. “Shut up,” he says, flatly. “That’s not – it’s not sexy. Shut up.”  
   
Steve’s lips twitch. “Yeah,” he says, “not so funny now, huh?”  
   
“That’s different.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because it’s – it’s – it is,” Tony insists, although now he’s not sure how, and he can’t work out if maybe he’s angry at himself for crossing a line, or treating Steve like shit, or just being caught out.  
   
Steve takes the gag out of the brown bag. He fiddles with the platinum clasp. “Do you want to make it up to me?” He asks.  
   
“Depends. You want a repeat of the helicarrier?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Then what?”  
   
“I just want to see you.”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. To see him? He tries to think what that could mean. “Clothes on,” he says, bluntly.  
   
“Shirt off,” Steve tries to compromise.  
   
“Clothes on.”  
   
“Fine. Clothes on, but I get to tie your hands.”  
   
Tony raises his brows. “Just how kinky are you, Captain?”  
   
“I wasn’t. Until I met you.”  
   
Right. Because apparently, there’s something about Tony that just screams ‘tie me up and use me, I deserve it!’ He narrows his eyes, considers.  
   
“You use the gag. You get to tie my hands, but it lasts no longer than ten minutes.”  
   
“I get to touch you?”  
   
“Obviously. As much as you can. But the clothes stay on.”  
   
“It would be better for you if you were naked,” Steve tries to bargain.  
   
Tony thinks. “No,” he says, finally. Last time, Tony was naked and Steve wasn’t. He doesn’t like it. That’s not happening again until he’s seen Steve the same way.  
   
“Fine. Give me your tie.”  
   
Reluctantly, Tony tugs it off, hands it to him, twists on the couch so he’s facing away. The knot is snug, secure – Tony could probably break it, if he thought hard about it. But he’s not really thinking very hard right now.  
   
Steve steadies him with a hand on his shoulder; light, grounding. “Open your mouth,” he asks, quietly. “Any last words?”  
   
“Just get on with it, Rogers. I’m watching the clock.”  
   
The gag fits neatly between his gums and his cheeks. It hooks around the skin there, pulls his mouth open wide. He realises, he doesn’t know what to do with his tongue. Steve manhandles him, sits on the couch and makes him straddle his waist. “Is that comfortable?” He asks, strangely considerate.  
   
Tony nods.  
   
“Good.” He’s sitting there, looking up at him, frowning slightly. He reaches up a hand and – tucks some errant strands of hair beneath the strap of the gag. He nails scratch at Tony’s scalp. It’s nice.  
   
He shuts his eyes. One of Steve’s hands are resting on his thigh, holding him; the other is leaving his hair, tracing a very light line down his cheek, to his chin; tipping it left and right. “Are you drunk?” He asks.  
   
Tony drags open his eyes. He shrugs his shoulders. _Kinda,_ he makes himself say. There’s drool pooling in his cheeks, and it’s hard to swallow.  
   
Steve drops his hand to the back of Tony’s neck, cups it, thumb dragging over his sensitive nape. He seems to like the little shudder Tony gives him, the appreciative wiggle, because he does it again.  
   
“You’re drooling,” he says, softly. He lifts the hand that had been balancing Tony’s thigh, drags his index finger through a line of saliva on his chin. He expects him to clear it off, but instead, he just smears it against his cheek.  
   
Ah. Just when Tony thought Steve might play nice, tonight.  
   
“It’s not that I like the silence,” Steve admits. He rests his hands on Tony’s waist, squeezes slightly. “It’s not even that – I don’t know. It’s not even that I don’t like you talking. Sometimes, I like you talking. When you talk about the things you’re interested in, even though I don’t get it. Or politics – you can be wicked sharp when you’re talking about politics.”  
   
Is that a compliment? Tony shuffles slightly on Steve’s knees, impatient.  
   
“It’s just…” Steve shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know what I did to make you hate me so bad. Maybe I’ve just got one of those faces.”  
   
Tony tracks Steve’s eyes, meets him head on. Refuses to look away. He wants to say, _I don’t hate you,_ but he can’t. So he settles for rolling his eyes.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “that figures.” His gaze flicks back up to Tony, then down to his collarbone. He pinches the collar of his shirt and peels it back slightly to look at the skin beneath. “I know we said you could keep the clothes,” he says innocently, “but we didn’t discuss having a look.”  
   
Tony scowls at him best he can. He doesn’t really care; it’s just the _principle_ of the thing. It’s not like he can stop Steve from unbuttoning his shirt anyway.  
   
He feeds his hands up Tony ribs beneath the shirt, holding him steady. The touch of him feels good – intimate, somehow, more intimate than being screwed on the floor was. Maybe it’s the close proximity, the fact he can see Steve eyes, smell his arousal.  
   
Steve drags his thumbs oh-so lightly against Tony’s skin. It starts to goosepimple, he arches his back reflexively to alleviate the slight tickling sensation. “Shh,” Steve soothes, holding him firm. “Don’t – fidget. I just want to look.”  
   
A string of drool has made its way past Tony’s chin, dripping onto his chest. Steve ignores it. Instead, he shifts his grip up so his hands are near Tony’s breast, lets his thumbs stretch out to circle his nipples. “Pretty,” he says, almost reluctantly, like giving him a compliment is a chore.  
   
Tony relaxes into his hands. It feels too good, to have his nipples stroked. He tests the ties around his wrists – still strong. He tips back his head and sighs. _Steve._ The name drifts across his brain. He feels dozy, pleasantly buzzed.  
   
Ouch. Steve’s nail is digging into Tony’s left nipple – his eyes fly open, he makes a noise of pain. It’s gone as soon as it comes; Steve lunges up to press a soft kiss against the skin, lingering.  
   
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry, “you were falling asleep on me.”  
   
Tony frowns at him. _What do you want?_ He tries to telegraph with his eyes. Steve ignores him, though. He shuffles Tony closer, one hand on his ass. “I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admits. “We shouldn’t be doing this, huh? It’s wrong.”  
   
Tony shrugs at him, wiggles on Steve’s lap. He’s wet, and Steve is thickening beneath him. He could do with a nice fuck, maybe – what does he have to do to convince him?  
   
“Back in my day, this wouldn’t have even been an issue,” Steve sighs, trailing his finger around the bottom of the arc reactor, tapping his nail against the metal housing. “You would have been second in command, there would be no question of – not sleeping together. We just would. Hard mission, take it out in each other’s bodies,” he mumbles.  
   
Pressing Tony forward, pushing at his back with a hand, so his chest is near Steve’s face. “This is impressive, though,” he admits, stroking a palm over the reactor. “I don’t even want to know how deep it goes. I figure – it must have hurt, to put it in.”  
   
Tony doesn’t want to talk about it. He nods.  
   
Steve maybe picks up on the change on his scent, the way he holds his chin back, reticent, unwilling. He cups Tony’s nape, strokes him there, his own head tipped back, eyes shut, revelling in the silence.  
   
“I like the gag,” he murmurs, after a time. “I know you don’t. If we do this again – I promise you get to choose, next time. If there is a next time.”  
   
They both know there’ll be a next time.  
   
Steve runs his fingers over Tony’s stretched bottom lip, inhales heavily. “I just like the idea of it,” he says. “You all quiet, having to just – deal with it,” he smirks. Two fingers sit heavy on Tony’s tongue. “Do you want to suck them for me?”  
   
He can just about lather them with his tongue, fuck his mouth back and forth on their length. Steve’s scent goes – harsh. Hot. Tony’s pants are sticking to his ass, and Steve will be able to feel the warmth on his thighs.  
   
“That’s enough,” he says abruptly. His fingers, light at the back of his head, loosening the gag and dragging it away. Tony rolls his jaw, hears it crack. “Thanks,” he says.  
   
“You’re welcome.”  
   
“I’m wet,” Tony says, bluntly. He grinds himself against Steve’s pants. “Do you want to, or not?”  
   
“How drunk are you?” Steve asks. “It depends.”  
   
“Undo my hands,” Tony orders. “I need to get my pants off. Take your cock out. You don’t need to do jackshit, just let me do this.”  
   
It’s good, riding Steve. He has his head leaning back against the couch, his eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open. He cups Tony’s waist, and for the most part just lets him get on with it, occasionally thrusting his hips, disrupting Tony’s flow, the slick, wet slapping sound of his ass against Steve’s thighs.  
   
He comes, good and hot and solid, and Steve follows Tony long after. He pulls himself off his cock before he can knot, sits himself on Steve’s waist, his wet ass grinding against the skin of his stomach. He groans, throws back his head. “That was nice,” he says.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, breathless, cheeks flushed. “It was. Thanks.”  
   
Tony’s head falls forward, his brow against Steve’s, shivery, sweating, panting. “I don’t sleep well,” he blurts, “I don’t sleep well these days. That’s why I’ve been waiting up.”  
   
“I figured.”  
   
“Not for you. Just – “Tony shakes his head, “in general. But if I’ve been a bitch – that’s why. I’ve just been tetchy. I cross lines, I say shit that isn’t funny.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“Good. I’m glad.” A beat: “I just wanted you to know.”  
   
“Well, I do,” Steve says shortly. He twists, pushes Tony off of his lip. “Hope I helped. Go get some rest.”  
   
Tony hovers. “I didn’t ask. Did you – did you have fun, today? With the veterans?”  
   
Steve rolls his head to look at him. “Yeah, Tony,” he says flatly, jaw tight. “I had fun. Why don’t you just go, now?”  
   
It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. Tony doesn’t know what he said that was wrong. Was it something he did? He pulls on his pants silently, awkwardly. He opens his mouth to say, ‘okay, have a nice night,’, but no words come out. Steve isn’t even looking at him. So he just leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my [tumblr](www.writingromanoff.com)
> 
> So this accidentally got plotty. Lots of it. Just a warning -- it's not going to be a sweet, happy story. Which isn't saying that there isn't an eventual happy ending, but both characters go to some DARK places and do some bad, bad things.
> 
> Anyway, as per, comments are loved. I always want to know how the characters are shaping up, especially Steve -- since he's not the POV character, it's harder to make his motivations clear.


	3. jealous

It’s SHIELD, they’re having a party, they won… something, Tony is drunk, he’s high in the sky, and he wants to celebrate. The guy is young, younger than Tony would usually go for, but he’s built like a brick-shithouse and Tony is feeling sloppy. They fuck in the alpha locker room, and he rides the young guy on a bench. After, he tells him no pictures, no rumors. If he traces it back to him, he’ll be out of a job for life.  
   
Steve isn’t really one for parties, Tony has learned. At least, not parties where the main aim is to schmooze, and make small-talk. Tony thinks… Steve is probably the kind of alpha that likes a fucking punch-up. Smokey rooms and pool, too much cheap alcohol and even cheaper omegas. The uptight room full of brass and their wives probably isn’t his style.  
   
He’s not surprised when Steve turns up, bag on his shoulder, clearly planning on getting the next chopper out. “You shouldn’t be in here,” Steve tells him, without much bite. He starts packing his clothes, rolling them tight, pushing them to the bottom of his bag. The military method.  
   
“I thought I left my watch,” Tony lies, blatantly, as if he hasn’t just been lying here with his legs spread, fucked out and dozy, watching the florescent lights. “Have you seen it?”  
   
Steve grunts, doesn’t look at him. “Why’d you need to take off your watch?” He asks. “Was it really important, for what you were doing?”  
   
“Captain Judgemental.”  
   
“I’m not judgemental,” Steve says shortly. He straightens, swings his bag over his shoulder, turns to the locker. “Other people are.”  
   
“Other people should mind their own business.”  
   
“There are better ways to celebrate, you know,” Steve is saying, disapprovingly. “People talk.”  
   
“People can keep talking. I’m not hurting anyone, am I?”  
   
Steve doesn’t respond directly. He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s a free country,” he says.  
   
Tony clears his throat. “Jealous,” he says, evasively, at Steve’s retreating back.  
   
Steve stops, and turns. “Excuse me?”  
   
Tony looks up, innocently. “What?”  
   
“What did you just say?”  
   
“I didn’t say anything.”  
   
“Kinda thought I heard something, though.”  
   
“You must have imagined it.” Tony narrows his eyes, comically quizzical. “I don’t know, maybe it was your subconscious speaking.”  
   
“My subconscious, huh?” Is it Tony, or does Steve seem slightly amused? He throws his bag back down on the bench. “Why would my subconscious say that?”  
   
“Say what?”  
   
Steve sighs. “That I’m jealous. Why would my – _subconscious,_ think that.”  
   
Tony shrugs. “Because you’re a judgemental prick.”  
   
“And you’re a sloppy whore.”  
   
“Ouch. True, but ouch. Go hard, Steve.”  
   
“You got a problem, Stark?”  
   
“No. I think you’ve got a problem.”  
   
“You’re the one holding me up. Begging for attention.” Steve laughs. “Hell, I think you’re the one who’s jealous.”  
   
“Christ, of what?! You don’t fuck, Rogers. There’s nothing to be jealous of.”  
   
Steve folds his arms. “This is the alpha locker room.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“And, there’s about sixty drunk alphas out there. You’re just lying here, like a – bait.”  
   
“No one’s going to rape me on board the helicarrier,” Tony says casually, “Fury wouldn’t be happy.”  
   
“Not the point. Someone might try anything.”  
   
“Would that bother you?” Tony asks lazily, sitting up.  
   
“No. I don’t care who touches you.”  
   
“It kind of just sounded like you did, though,” Tony says, standing.  
   
“You hear what you want to hear.”  
   
“I say what I see, babe. You’re a jealous bitch, aren’t you?”  
   
Steve’s hands on his shoulders. Tony’s back against the lockers; he grunts. “Ouch,” he says, pointedly.  
   
Steve’s gripping his jaw between his thumb and fingers. “Watch your mouth,” he says, watching Tony’s. Fixated with it, actually.  
   
Tony licks his bottom lip. Steve’s pupils blow. “Why’d you love my mouth so much?” Tony asks him, genuinely curious. “What kind of fetish is that?”  
   
“I like shutting it up,” Steve says, but he’s being disingenuous, and Tony knows it.  
   
“You gonna screw me again, Rogers? Against the fucking lockers? Is that what we do now?”  
   
“I don’t know where that ass has been.”  
   
“Like you care.”  
   
“I care. I have standards.”  
   
“Yeah, tell that to the floor of the helicarrier.”  
   
Steve looks irritated. “That was a one-time thing.”  
   
“And last week. With the gag.”  
   
“That was different.”  
   
It had been. Far more intimate.  
   
“You might as well admit you have a thing for me,” Tony says lazily, dragging up his eyes. “C’mon, I can smell you, you can smell me – we both want it. What’s the big deal?”  
   
“You smell like that fucking no-name tech,” Steve grunts, pushing his knee between Tony’s thighs, “and I never know what you want.”  
   
“It’s not a conspiracy, Rogers. I like sex, understand?”  
   
“Enough to fuck anything that moves? Jesus, Stark, he’s going to spread the word. They’ll all think you’re easy. Next thing you know, there’ll be rumours, people will look at you the wrong way – “  
   
“People already look at me the wrong way, but I appreciate the concern, it’s touching.”  
   
“It’s not just about you. We’re a team. Your actions reflect on all of us.”  
   
“How so?”  
   
“If they know you’re a dirty bitch, they start to think bad of us, too. Think we’re loose. They think I can’t control you.”  
   
Tony’s eye twitches. “Control me, huh?”  
   
Steve’s thigh is hot against his groin. “Control you,” he confirms.  
   
Tony pushes him back, slightly. “You have some funny ideas, Rogers.”  
   
“I don’t think it’s changed that much since my time. I don’t know many other omegas that have a job like you, but I bet if they do, they have someone looking out for them.”  
   
Tony grinds his teeth. “Looking out for them, huh?”  
   
“It’s a dangerous world.”  
   
“Right, how would I know, I’ve only lived in it my whole life.”  
   
Steve seethes, slightly. “You’re not taking it seriously. Someone could – hurt you, if you just walk around, flaunting your weaknesses.”  
   
“Sex isn’t weakness.”  
   
“You might think that. I’m alpha. I know what we think. Most of those alphas out there will never get a chance with an omega like you. It might not be a weakness, but it makes you vulnerable.”  
   
“So you’re _protecting_ me,” Tony sneers. “Is that how you get your rocks off, Steve? Big bold alpha protecting little old me?”  
   
Steve pushes the bridge between his thumb and finger against Tony’s throat, flattening his head against the locker, forcing him to submit. “Do you ever think,” Steve says quietly, voice light, “that life might be easier if you just do what you’re told?”  
   
“You’re not the first to suggest it,” Tony admits, shutting his eyes. “You won’t be the last.”  
   
He braces his hand on Steve’s shoulder, but Steve just catches his wrist, pulls it away; he’s aware, as always, that he _is_ so vulnerable compared to Steve. He could do anything to him. He couldn’t stop it.  
   
“I’m telling you,” Steve murmurs, mouth by his ear, breath warm, “that your actions reflect badly on us.” His thumb digs into the pulse point on Tony’s wrist. “Do you understand?”  
   
Tony doesn’t respond right away. Steve makes him stretch out his arm, brackets him completely, nowhere to go. “I said,” he repeats, calmly, “do you understand?”  
   
He manages to drag up his eyes, think past the lassitude. “I understand, Captain.”  
   
Steve holds his gaze. And Tony looks away first.  
   
“Good boy,” Steve says warmly. “That’s what I like to see.”  
   
   
A week later, and by the time he gets home, he’s shivering.  
   
Murray has left bruises on his wrists, and even though he’s not _really_ shivering from cold, he tells himself a whiskey will warm him up. He’s still wearing the clothes he left in last night. He wants to shower, wash off all the filth, but he doesn’t want to see himself. He knows there’ll be marks, and fluids, and other things he doesn’t want to think about.  
   
He’s maybe – drunk too much, he doesn’t know. The bar is starting to spin. His aim is getting sloppy.  
   
And, as usual, Steve’s up his ass. “You’re drunk,” he dismisses.  
   
“I’m _not,”_ Tony slurs.  
   
He looks down at him. Tony thinks he – looks angry. Or annoyed. Or just – just –  
   
“No,” Tony snap, swerving to avoid his grasp, reaching for the bottle. “It’s not yours, you can’t even get drunk.”  
   
Steve catches his wrist, anyway. “You shouldn’t drink like this,” he says, disapprovingly.  
   
“Aww,” Tony simpers, “little me, shouldn’t drink alcohol?” He hiccups. “Stupid fucking omegas with fucked up physiologies, who need to be good and kind always shouldn’t _ever_ do anything like _drink –_ “  
   
Steve frowns. “I meant, alone. And so much. It’s weird,” he says, nose crinkling.  
   
Tony momentarily recoils. And then he barks a laugh. “Weird?” He snorts, loosening his grip in his moment of humour, letting Steve pull the bottle away without much fight. “You think high-functioning alcoholism is weird?”  
   
“I don’t think you’re an alcoholic, I think you’re weird. Stop before you vomit all over yourself.”  
   
Tony doesn’t vomit when he’s drunk. He can handle his liquor a lot better than that; he’s been drinking since he was fourteen. He tells Steve this, and Steve sort of sighs, rolls up to the bar and pours him a cup of water in a crystal whiskey glass.  
   
Tony snatches it, downs it in one not breaking eye contact with Steve the whole time. He belches, shoves the glass at him warily. If Steve finds the dominance play strange, he doesn’t mention it.  
   
“I heard you went home with Don Murray last night,” Steve says conversationally, pouring him another glass; he’s bent over the sink, so he doesn’t see Tony shiver.  
   
“Yeah?” He asks defensively, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, “what of it?”  
   
Steve shrugs a shoulder. “He’s an influential man.”  
   
“I like to sleep with influential men.”  
   
“And women,” Steve adds.  
   
“Obviously. Anyone that’ll have me, right? That’s what you said.”  
   
Steve doesn’t respond directly. He walks back to where Tony is swaying on his feet, picks up his wrist, forces him to hold the glass. Tony feels – something, run down his spine. He likes to be manhandled. “His people called today. They’re going to stop obstructing our access to the Foreman accounts.”  
   
Tony smirks. “Pillow talk,” he says.  
   
“I figured.” A beat; “I appreciate that.”  
   
“Thanks. I didn’t do it for you.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve says, reasonably. “That’s fine. Still, I’m thanking you.”  
   
“Good. I’m glad.”  
   
Steve stares at him for a long time. Tony knows what he’s trying to do; people talk in long silences, Tony, especially, talks in long silence. He can’t help it, it’s reflexive, and he was trained to always be polite. He sips from the glass, raises his brows. “Will that be all, or…?”  
   
“I was thinking, today. About something in your file.”  
   
Oh boy. “Yeah?”  
   
“Yeah. It said, when you were a kid, you got contracted out to the old head of Cain & Partners.”  
   
“Mr Cain. Sure. He wasn’t so old back then, obviously. Why?”  
   
“I figured you probably didn’t make that decision yourself.”  
   
“I was 15,” Tony scoffs, “of course I didn’t. But he was kind to me, if that’s what you’re wondering. It wasn’t like – “  
   
“That wasn’t, actually. Back then he was a big investor in SI, wasn’t he?”  
   
“Dad wanted him to sell up.”  
   
Steve is worrying his lip. It’s kinda cute. “I guess I’m asking if – someone organised that so you could convince him to sell.”  
   
Tony laughs. “ _Convince_ him to sell? What do you think I was, some kind of wunderkind? Shut up, I know I was, I mean – as if he would listen to a kid omega, barely heating, with what to do with his own damn stock.”  
   
“Fine, okay, you weren’t there to convince him yourself. But there would have been a deal, right? You would have – slept with him, and in return…”  
   
“He sold up. Yeah. Why? Does it bother you?”  
   
“Not – necessarily. I think fifteen is too young. I don’t think that’s right. But I get it, now.”  
   
“You get it.”  
   
“Sure. The sleeping around, the sexual favours. It’s how you get what you want, isn’t it? Or how you get what you need.”  
   
Bingo. “One of the ways,” Tony says, evasively. “I thought you knew that.”  
   
“I thought you were a nymphomaniac,” Steve says bluntly. “Or you just had very low self-esteem.”  
   
“I won’t lie to you Steve, I like to get fucked. I don’t know what to tell you.”  
   
“Not in public locker rooms.”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes. “Jeez, would you let that one go?”  
   
“I maintain what I say. It’s not good for you, or your reputation, or ours.” A beat; “Mr Murray. He’s not a nice man, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “he’s not.”  
   
And now Steve smells upset, maybe a little conflicted. “I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble on my account. Sleeping with people who don’t treat you right.”  
   
His voice is a little rough. Earthy. _Don’t treat you right._ Tony feels – calmed, eyelids a little heavy. “Sometimes I don’t like to be treated right,” he hears himself saying.  
   
He can smell Steve’s response.  
   
“I figured,” he says, as levelly as he can, probably. “Still. There’s a difference between liking it rough and – Natasha told me she saw you come in earlier. And now you’re drinking.”  
   
“I got what you wanted, didn’t I?”  
   
“I’m not attacking you,” Steve says, sounding strange. Gentle – that’s why, he sounds gentle. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m grateful. But I don’t want you hurt, not on my account, alright?”  
   
Tony drops the glass on the floor. It lands with a soft ‘thunk’ on the carpet, the last dregs of water staining it dark beige. “Well,” he says, “I’ll try not to get hurt on your account then, huh?”  
   
He looks up at Steve from under his lashes. He’s not _that_ much taller than him, really; mostly it’s an illusion, because Tony is so much slimmer. A lot slimmer, actually. Easy to manhandle. Tony likes being manhandled – did he already mention that?  
   
“No,” Steve says, sounding like he’s humoured. “You didn’t mention it. But I figured.”  
   
Tony licks his bottom lip. “Do you want to manhandle me?” He asks.  
   
“You’re drunk.”  
   
“And? I’m always drunk.”  
   
Steve steps closer into Tony’s personal space, between his legs. Looks down at him, sitting at the bar like he is. Any more, and their chests will touch. “Do you want something from me, Tony? Is that it?”  
   
Tony blows a raspberry. “There’s nothing you could give me,” he says.  
   
“Okay. So turn around and go to bed.”  
   
Instead, Tony lays his hand against Steve’s chest. He smells his lust scent, low-key and simmering throughout their conversation, ratchet up. His pupils expand. His breath is forcefully long and low. “When’s the last time someone touched _you?”_ Tony teases, cruelly.  
   
“I get around.”  
   
“No you don’t. I never smell it on you.”  
   
“Some of us are more discreet, Tony. Just because I don’t fuck my omegas on the kitchen floor doesn’t mean I don’t fuck them.”  
   
“Would you fuck me on the kitchen floor?” Tony asks, lasciviously. “You know I’d probably deserve it, right? To be fucked like a dirty, bad boy, not good enough for the bed.”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t deserve that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”  
   
“You’re not supposed to take it literally, Steve.”  
   
“Yeah, well I do.” He steps forward, one more time, and Tony reflexively scatters back, falling off the barstool; annoyed at himself, he pushes forward a bit, tries to crowd him, but Steve is bigger, his shoulders are broader, and suddenly Tony feels _small._ “If you ever need discipline, I’ll keep it in mind.”  
   
Tony hears himself suck in a breath, exhale with a small sigh. He knows he must smell of sex and heat; he’s damp, between his thighs. “You wouldn’t have it in you,” he says, without bite. “Captain Judgemental.”  
   
Steve sighs, rolls up his sleeves; Tony frowns at him. “What are you doing?”  
   
“C’mon,” he says, “I don’t want to drag it out. I know what you want, Tony, I can smell it all over you.”  
   
“What I want?”  
   
“You’ve still got Murray stuck on you, did you know that? Now,” Steve says, in a patient, explanatory voice that is somehow both domineering and kind, “I figure you want me to get that nasty scent off of you. Or maybe, Murray didn’t give you all you wanted, and you’re still a little bit riled up. Well, I’m pack alpha, so I can help you out, Tony. That’s what I’m here for.”  
   
“You’re a boy scout,” Tony scoffs.  
   
Steve shrugs a shoulder, wraps one arm around Tony’s waist, hitches him close. Reflexively, Tony puts his hands between them, but then – shudders. Steve is walking him back against the bar. “We’ll see about that,” he says.  
   
Tony hits the wall with an ‘oof’, trapped, secure and snug against Steve’s chest. Back safe, Steve warm and smelling like sex and alpha, big and broad _protected._ “You gonna screw me?” He asks, stupidly unable to keep want out of his voice, like he’s in heat and it’s his first time.  
   
“Nah,” Steve says, “I figure I’ll just finger fuck you till you come in your pants. Then you get to walk back to your floor just positively reeking of sex, huh Tony?” Steve’s voice is rough, and he’s half-smiling. Teasing.  
   
Tony just about manages to swallow. “The others – “  
   
“Never stopped you before, has it?” Steve is saying, bracketing Tony’s body with one arm up against the bar, pulling down Tony’s sweats with the other. “Besides, they can’t see nothing, not with me standing here.”  
   
Steve’s cupping him with one hand, waiting. Urgently, Tony flicks his eyes past his head; they’re alone. This is a mistake, but. But.  
   
He nods, once, tight, furtive. Steve doesn’t really wait – he just slides two fingers in, Tony’s already wet and dripping. He hears himself make a small noise, like a whimper, and Steve covers his mouth with his free hand, pinning him against the wall. Brusquely, brisk about it, he just slams his fingers in and out, occasionally crooking them against his sweet-spot.  
   
Tony moans against his palm, lathers it with his tongue. He wants to taste him so bad. He can’t describe it, how much he just wants to get down on his knees and put him on his tongue. He spreads his legs, rubs his hips back against the wall. He’s dangerously close to coming, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants – he wants Steve to put three fingers inside him, four, make him come and smear his face in it, hand in his hair, maybe tan his ass if he doesn’t do it right away. He wants – there’s so much he wants, and yet –  
   
Steve doesn’t tease him. He comes, and as soon as, Steve is pulling out his fingers. He’s still cupping Tony’s mouth when he smears them, indifferently, against Tony’s cheek.  
   
And then he pulls away. Tony is gasping; he didn’t even realise. He slides to the floor, pants around his ankles, come and slick leaking down his legs. He watches Steve wash his hands at the bar, dry them, roll down his sleeves. “Are you going to stay there all night?” He asks.  
   
Tony blows air up against his brow, feels his hair lift. “One sec,” he breathes.  
   
Steve holds out his hands. Tony takes them, legs a little wobbly, pitching a little into his chest. He smells good. Tony could easily just rest against him, now. “Does that feel better?” Steve asks, kindly. “Did it take the edge off?”  
   
Tony looks up, but keeps his eyes down. Steve’s earned a little bit of submission, after that show. “Uh huh,” he says.  
   
“Good.” He reaches down, pulls up Tony’s pants, pats his ass twice. “You should go shower,” he says. “I’m glad we had this talk. It was productive.”  
   
Tony stumbles forward. “Oh yeah,” he agrees, dazedly, drifting towards the elevator. “Very productive. Should do it again some time. Definitely.”  
   
He figures, it’s Steve’s way of saying thanks. Which is sad, really. That neither of them have the words to say what they mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, your thoughts make me write!


	4. gala

*Just a note – omegas don’t use Mr or Miss/Mrs, they go by ‘From’ when uncontracted and ‘Of’ when contracted.  
   
Tony feels bad for him, almost. He looks so out of place standing there, tuxedo too tight, glass in hand like it’s a lifeline. Tony figures, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but that’s about it, really.  
   
Steve is too alpha. It’s Tony’s working hypothesis – he’s too alpha, he never learnt to contain himself the way well-bred alpha do. He doesn’t contract an omega, he just takes them. What he wants he gets. And so standing, in this room, out of time and out of place…  
   
Again, Tony almost feels bad for him. Almost.  
   
“From Stark,” someone is saying, “From Stark, are you listening?”  
   
Only alphas think they can demand Tony’s time in that way. “Sorry,” he says, blinking, swallowing his sip of scotch rapidly. “Sorry, were you talking?”  
   
“You seemed distracted,” the alpha says in a stern voice, like he’s giving Tony a lesson. “I asked, had your lawyers looked over the contract I proposed?”  
   
Ah, crap. What was this guy’s name again? Tony’s an expert at mnemonics, it’s practically all they taught him at school; the alpha has a beard, a beard is an omega or woman that alpha and beta men use to cover, Bruce is a beta with an alpha fetish, Bruce is Hulk, the Hulk turns green, and so –  
   
“Mr Green,” Tony smiles. “I’m sure my lawyers have.”  
   
“It’s been two months, I’m used to a faster response.”  
   
Steve’s talking to someone, now. Two men and a woman, they’ve captured him into their conversation. He’s a party trick for them, Tony thinks. He knows how that feels – people still treat him like a freak.  
   
“… three months,” Mr Green is still talking. “I’d like to give you a firm hand, From Stark. I can be very generous, too. Of course, you’d need to be attending the various events I have – as part of the charity, you know – but I’m sure that’s nothing for a thing like you.”  
   
“I’ll look over it,” Tony lies, distractedly. Steve’s jaw is stiff, his shoulders are tense. The tips of his ears are turning pink.  
   
“From Stark? I really don’t like to have to ask twice, but you’re being very rude. This is making me consider rescinding my offer.”  
   
Tony frowns at him. “You do that,” he says absently, picking up the end of Mr Green’s tie and dropping it into his scotch glass. “Get your tip wet for me, okay?”  
   
He pushes through the throng of people blocking his way. “Tony!” Someone calls, and “From Stark,” says another, trying to grip his wrist, his attention, his ass. He makes a beeline for the small group that’s mingled around Steve, who’s blocked from view. “Excuse me,” he mutters, sliding into the circle.  
   
“Rogers,” he smiles, resting a hand on his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”  
   
“And here he is, the man of the hour,” one of the alphas says, clapping his hands. “We were just talking about you, From Stark.”  
   
“Only good things, I hope,” Tony says sweetly, curling his fingers into Steve’s arm. He senses he’s going to be dragging him away soon enough.  
   
“Not really,” Steve says, flatly. “They were telling me what a whore you are.”  
   
Tony raises his eyebrows. The alpha at least has the sense to look shocked. “Captain,” he laughs uneasily, “come on, now, I thought we were speaking in confidence.”  
   
“Did you think that was clever?” Tony asks the man. “Saying those things to him? Did it make you feel good?”  
   
“Stark – it was a joke,” the man explains away. “We meant nothing by it, it’s just something we heard – “  
   
“And you thought you’d tell him?” Tony presses. “Why?”  
   
The man opens his mouth as if to speak. Then laughs. “No reason,” he says, holding up his hands. “Apologies, Captain.”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “No,” he says shortly. “Apologise to him.”  
   
Now the man looks stiff, awkward. The crowd is shuffling. Steve smells like – shit, well, he smells like fight, close to it at least. He isn’t kidding. He wants that apology, and he wants it _now._  
   
“C’mon,” the man blusters. “He’s not a – it was a joke.”  
   
Steve takes one step closer. Just one, but every person in that circle – each and every one – shuffles back, almost tripping over each other. Except for the poor guy with the bad joke, who’s standing in the centre, paling.  
   
Tony doesn’t waste breath telling Steve to lay off, that he’s used to it, there’s no point; that would be stupid in the extreme. Instead, he says, “I would just do it, if I were you. You’ll be sparing yourself a lot of trouble.”  
   
The man’s eyes shift to Tony. He’s alpha; he won’t want to give in, not even to someone like Steve. There’s probably a little war going inside between his hind-brain and his reason, and one of them has got to win out. “It was just a joke,” he says again, like that means something. “I’m not – I can’t.”  
   
“Apologise to him?” Steve prompts. “He’s one of mine. Where I come from, the only way this ends is you set it right, or we settle it with our fists. What will it be?”  
   
He’s deadly serious, calmly rolling up his sleeves. Tony is – kinda turned on, to be honest. It’s hot, watching him defend his honour.  
   
So the other alpha breaks first. “I’m sorry,” he says, bluntly. “It was a joke. It won’t happen again, okay?”  
   
Steve is shaking his head. “No,” he says. “You do it properly. Have you all forgotten your manners? Down on your knees.”  
   
The man’s jaw is so tight it might snap. “Captain – “  
   
“On your knees, Mister. We’re not savages here. Do it the way I know they taught you at whatever fancy school you went to.”  
   
The alpha gets down on his knees. Tony holds out his hand, and lets him kiss it. “I’m sorry,” he grits out, “From Stark, I apologise for my comment. It was rude, and thoughtless.”  
   
“It was very thoughtless,” Tony agrees, sweetly. “But I accept your reparation, gladly. See? There we go. No need to fight.”  
   
The man wobbles to his feet, is dragged into the crowd by the group he arrived with. “I hope he wasn’t someone important,” Tony says absently, taking Steve’s drink from his hand and downing it in one. “We could be making trouble for ourselves.”  
   
“I don’t like it when people talk about you that way,” Steve says, still reeking of fight. “They don’t have the right, they don’t even understand. How dare they.”  
   
“Rogers, _you_ didn’t understand until a couple weeks ago. It’s fine. Someone probably sent him to rile you up.”  
   
Steve looks at him, abruptly. “Walk with me,” he says.  
   
He doesn’t leave much choice in the matter; he just grabs Tony’s arm and drags him, rather reluctantly, across the floor. “Steve,” he hisses behind a smile, patting his hand, “people can see,” he reminds sweetly, nodding at a cluster of guests.  
   
“Why would someone want to rile me up?” He asks, depositing Tony in a secluded hallway away from the main ballroom.  
   
“Rogers, we’ve discussed manhandling,” Tony mutters, rubbing his arm. “I don’t know. No reason,” he says, brushing down his clothes.  
   
“Are there people who get something out of me doing something stupid?”  
   
“Of course,” Tony snorts. “You go apeshit, maybe get put in a cell overnight. There are lots of people who’d like to see that.”  
   
“People like who?” Steve presses. “HYDRA?”  
   
“What? No! I meant – paparazzi, you know. Photographers,” Tony clarifies, “journalists, people who make money off that kinda thing. Maybe one of the guests had a bet, Jesus.”  
   
“Why would people do that?”  
   
“Because people are mean,” Tony simpers, pushing Steve away. “Are we done here?”  
   
“No,” pushing Tony back into place. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”  
   
They both pause while a staffer walks by, tablet in hand, heels clicking against the marble floor. They wait for her to pass. Then:  
   
“HYDRA isn’t hiding behind every lamppost, Rogers, it’s not 1939.”  
   
“I know that,” he says, defensively.  
   
“Good.” A beat. “You didn’t have to do that, back there.”  
   
“If people think bad of you it reflects bad on all of us.”  
   
“Right,” Tony agrees evasively, because they both know that’s just a front. “Well – thanks, anyway. I didn’t ask for it, or want it, but thanks.”  
   
There are footsteps. Steve turns, instinctively, head snapping to the side; Tony doesn’t bother, he’s not souped up enough on fight to care about every little noise. But Steve – he’s noticing some things about Steve tonight. The slant of his cheekbones to his mouth, the hard curve of his jaw, wide and strong. His hair, pushed back on his head, and that stupid fucking tuxedo that’s far too tight, but still –  
   
Steve shoves his hands in his pockets. “Nothing,” he says, coming down. “Just a maid.”  
   
“C’mere,” Tony says, vaguely.  
   
Steve leans forward. “What’s wrong?”  
   
Tony is loosening his bowtie so it hangs around his neck. “Do you still like gags?” He asks.  
   
“Yes,” Steve says, automatic, not thinking. “Wait, what – why?”  
   
“What’s that about?” Tony asks, distracting him as picks at the first few buttons on his shirt.  
   
“Uh,” Steve frowns. “I just – I think it’s hot, you know.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony hums, wrapping his fingers in the loose ends of Steve’s bowtie. “It was funny, back there, when you made the guy thank me properly, don’t you think? I haven’t seen that shit outside of a civil courtroom since I was a kid.”  
   
“Well, it’s right,” Steve says staunchly. “I’m not quite sure where people’s decency has gone.”  
   
He’s clueless. “It’s just decency,” Tony agrees, nodding. “Pure decency. It was so sweet of you to protect my honour, _Sir,”_ he presses, tugging Steve closer.  
   
The tips of his ears turn pink. “Oh,” he says, realising, maybe. “Well, you know. It was the right thing to do.”  
   
“I was taught how to apologise pretty,” Tony says from under his lashes, “but they also taught me how to thank pretty, too. Do you want to see me thank you, Sir?”  
   
“You can – uh,” he clears his throat, looks away. How can someone so cold sometimes be so damn sweet? “You can call me Captain.”  
   
Tony hides his smirk. “Captain,” he says, pointedly, dragging him down the hallways by his tie. He slides into one of the empty lounge rooms, pulls him in after him, rests his back against the door and smiles. “Should I thank you on my knees?” He asks, innocently. “How should I pay my reparation, Captain?”  
   
Steve’s hands are on his lapels, pulling off his jacket, popping buttons. He presses kisses against the side of his jaw, throat, and then down to his shoulder, sliding off his crisp $300 shirt just enough to bare the skin, like any more would be an affront, _indecent._ Tony wants to give Steve a little bit of what he knows, tonight.  
   
He shivers, lets Steve kiss his skin. He sucks at the sensitive area behind his ear, ignoring his nape but caressing his throat with his hand. “You have such a beautiful neck,” he breathes, letting his teeth ghost over Tony’s earlobe.  
   
“Any way I can show you my thanks,” Tony sighs, letting his head tip back against the wall. “Whatever you want, Captain.”  
   
Steve’s hands pull away. “I shouldn’t do all the work,” he says, “after all, you’re the one wanting to make reparations.”  
   
Tony smooths his fingers over the bites backs on his neck and shoulder, pinches and twists the skin. The pain feels good, grounding. He lurches off from the wall, pushes Steve back, back, back into one of the armchair. He knocks over the vase on the table, but whoops, he’ll make sure to leave a big tip on his bill.  
   
“You seem to know what you want,” Steve murmurs, looking up at him.  
   
Tony drops to his knees. He’s not even drunk – there’s no excuse to be doing, save for pure attraction. _I always know what I want. I always get what I want._  
   
He clasps his hands together, like he’s begging. “Captain,” he starts, “I’m so, so grateful for what you did back there. No one’s ever stood up for me like that before.” He’s only half-lying. In fact, he’s not lying at all.  
   
He can smell Steve, the lust off of him, and see him thickening in his dress-pants. Hears him, clear his throat. “Well, it was my pleasure, darlin’,” he replies, voice lapsing into something rougher, his tone all alpha.  
   
Carefully, Tony rests his cheek against his inner thigh, shuts his eyes. “Any way I can thank you,” he murmurs. “Just tell me how I can repay you.”  
   
Steve grasps him, squeezes. He sighs slightly, leaning back into the chair. “I think – to at least start repaying me,” he clarifies, “you should open those pretty lips.”  
   
Tony does. He mouths along Steve’s clothed thigh until he reaches the heat between his legs, hard, expecting. He meets his eyes. Steve just watches him.  
   
With steady fingers, he unbuttons Steve’s pants, pulls down the zip. He hooks two thumbs beneath the waistband of Steve’s briefs and carefully drags them over his cock, tucking them beneath his balls. “Captain,” he says quietly, and then he leans forward and presses kisses, lips barely ghosting skin, against the line of Steve’s cock.  
   
Steve is still watching, him, eyes half-lidded, relaxed against the chair. “Thank you,” he says, between kisses, soft and delicate. “Thank you for protecting me, Captain.”  
   
He shifts, brings up his arms so his elbows rest on Steve’s thighs. He moves his mouth lower and with tiny, incremental licks, begins to lather Steve’s balls with his tongue. It’s gratifying to hear him grunt a little, pushes his legs further apart.  
   
He takes his hand and carefully slides it down his own pants, reaching for his hole; wet, as always, and easily taking two fingers. He fucks himself while still kissing Steve’s scrotum, and when he feels dozy and hard, he pulls out his hand and uses it to slick Steve’s cock, working his fist up and down.  
   
His hips twitch into Tony’s hand. He sucks at the base of Steve’s cock as he uses his fingers on him. “Do you like that, Captain?” He asks, a string of drool between Steve’s skin and his lips.  
   
“You keep on at it, sweetheart,” Steve says distractedly, pushing his head back down on his cock. “Don’t you bother speaking now, just do your duty.”  
   
And _God,_ if that doesn’t hit every single masochistic button Tony has. He takes away his fingers and rests them on the ground, leaning his weight on his hands and sucking the tip of Steve cock. He takes him down in one, feels him at the back of his throat, almost – almost – enough to trigger his gag reflex.  
   
“That’s it,” Steve urges, grunting. “Just like that, you sweet little bitch.”  
   
You’re not really supposed to use that word these days, but Tony doesn’t mind. He knows Steve means it in a good way, mostly. He fucks his mouth up and down Steve’s length, taking him whole, feeling him twitch inside him throat. It’s sloppy. There’s drool on Tony’s chin.  
   
“Good bitch,” Steve is saying, curling his hands in his lap, inhaling sharply. He’s desperately trying not to grip Tony’s hair, he thinks, to use his mouth that way. “Jesus, that’s good. That’s it, baby. That’s it.”  
   
He bites his lip. Tony can feel him start to tense, doesn’t stop taking him in his mouth, pushing his tongue along the underside of his shaft. “That’s it,” he saying, voice hard, fingers wrapping in Tony’s hair, finally. “That’s it, fucking hell. Yes, come on now. C’mon,”  
   
He fucks Tony’s mouth until he comes, releasing Tony enough that he can pull off. Holding himself in hand, he finishes on his face, his open mouth, his tongue. He’s moaning, unashamed, his knot thick in his fingers, gripping himself to the point of pain to mimic the feel of an omega’s hot, tight hole.  
   
“Don’t swallow,” he orders, abruptly, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare shut your mouth.”  
   
He doesn’t. Tony sits there, hands between his knees, eyes shut and head tipped up, painted in an alpha’s spend. It’s cooled on his skin by the time Steve’s hand grips his throat, tugs him up to straddle his lap.  
   
“Good boy,” he says, voice warm, as his fingers stretch into Tony’s mouth. “You thanked me well, Stark.”  
   
He gathers up the come and saliva, draws a figure of eight on Tony’s throat. “You’re going to stink of me,” he says, sounding far too pleased. “They’re all going to know. Let them, next time. Let them try talk about one of my own.”  
   
Tony swallows what’s left in his mouth, draws his hand over his chin. “One of your own, huh?” He croaks.  
   
Steve’s eyes flick up. “You all are,” he says. “I know things are different now. I’m not stupid. But I am your alpha, whether you like or not.”  
   
“Jury’s out.” Tony climbs off his lap, stretches his jaw. “I don’t think I can go back to that ballroom, now.”  
   
“You’re welcome to. In fact, I encourage it.”  
   
“Cute. I think I’d rather keep the dominance play to myself, thanks. Plus, there’s spunk in my eyelashes.”  
   
“It’s a good look for you.”  
   
Tony hastily throws on his jacket. “I’ll leave first,” he says, “you follow after, two minutes behind, agreed?”  
   
“Agreed.”  
   
“Good. I’ll tell the driver to keep the car running.”  
   
“You’re still wet, I can smell it. Don’t you want something in return?”  
   
Tony quirks his lips. “Just consider that a gift, buddy. Don’t expect it again unless you do something really spectacular.”  
   
They don’t talk on the drive back to the tower, although the silence is companionable enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yes. as per usual, thoughts are greatly appreciated, they're pretty much the only thing that makes me write. or at least the only reason i post. if you're enjoying this, pls let know!


	5. bed

He always leaves before Tony wakes up.  
   
Or at least, he thinks he does. Tony’s a light sleeper; rarely does he go a night without something disturbing him. Steve always tries to be quiet – he’ll carefully peel back the covers, disentangle himself from Tony’s limbs, calves between thighs, hands around waists. Quietly pick up his clothes (sometimes the clink of his belt will give him away) and leave, naked, silent. Only his scent and the remains of his spend, leaking between Tony’s legs, will let you know he was ever there at all.  
   
Tony, for his part, keeps up the charade. He’ll make sure his breathing stays slow and measured, and that he keeps his limbs loose. Steve seems to believe it, or at the very least, pretends he does.  
   
There’s something sad about it, Tony decides. Two people, both pretending they don’t know, or care.  
   
Tonight, Tony decides it will be different. After they’ve finished, and Tony is lying naked under the sheets, he curls himself against Steve’s chest, purposefully. It’s cold. Steve holds him – he seems to think that Tony likes the touch, maybe. It always feels like he’s humouring him.  
   
Still, when Steve starts his shuffling, his quiet ministrations, Tony presses his brow to his collarbones. His breath will be warm on his skin. “Stay,” he says, softly, just softly. In a way he never is, especially not with Steve. Especially not after everything they’ve done.  
   
“You’re awake,” Steve says. “I thought you were sleeping. Sorry if I woke you.”  
   
Tony is tired. So tired. Sore, too. “Just tonight,” he mumbles. “T’s cold.”  
   
He waits for Steve’s excuse. To his surprise, he acquiesces easily. “Okay,” he says, tucking his arms around Tony’s shoulders, sighing into his throat. “Just tonight,” he agrees.  
   
Tony relaxes. He thinks, _there won’t be any nightmares this evening._  
  
He’s wrong, of course.  
  
They sleep. Tony comes-to slowly, frowning, unsure – he’s warm, too warm. Steve’s arms are heavy, hot. And tightening. Tighter and tighter.  
   
“Rogers,” he says sleepily, trying to bring his hands between their chests. “M’ hot, roll over.”  
   
Steve’s still asleep. Steve can’t be woken. Trying to push Steve off of him is like trying to move a brick wall. He moans, says something that’s slurred, and closes his arms around Tony’s waist.  
   
He can’t breathe. His lungs are compressed against Steve’s body, his stomach has nowhere to go. The light from the arc reactor is shrouded completely. “Rogers,” he wheezes, panicky, and so, so awake. “Rogers, I can’t – wake up. Wake up, you’re hurting me.”  
   
Steve moans again. Tony thinks he might be crying, but he can’t tell, because there’s blood rushing in his ears. “Jarvis,” he croaks, and then, “Steve, please.”  
   
He slaps his hands against Steve’s arms, kicks his legs, pulls his hair and scratches his back. Jarvis blares lights and cymbals and a red flashing alarm. Steve’s brow furrows, his face scrunches, and he opens his eyes.  
   
But he’s not awake. He clamps his hands over his ears, rolls and gets the sheet twisted around his waist. Tony tries to scramble back, shielding his eyes from the glare. “Jarvis!” He screams, “turn it off!”  
   
The room is cast in red, and Steve is straddling his waist, hands on the side of his shoulders, shaking him. “Where am I?” He grunts, rattling him against the mattress, “Where the fuck am I?”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to say. “You’re home,” he tries to soothe, reaching out to hold Steve’s face, stroke his hair. “Steve, you’re _home – “_  
   
He scents the air, visibly. “You’re _lyin’,”_ he snarls, and he bats Tony away, pushes his head into the pillow. Except he uses the flat side of his palm, and although it probably isn’t meant to be a beating it feels like a slap.  
   
Instinctively, then, Tony raises his arms in front of his face to protect himself from further blows. He tips his head back and bares his throat. Then, he forces himself to stop cowering, to carefully curl his fists by his ears, licks his lip, and relax every muscle in his body.  
   
Steve’s nose twitches. “Where am I?” He asks again, slurred, eyes clouded. He shifts his knees between Tony’s thighs so they’re spread; apparently, Steve has just realised the person beneath him is omega. He’ll fuck him, if he has to. Anything to keep him here, and keep him grounded.  
   
“You’re at the tower,” Tony corrects, “Avengers tower. I’m here for you, Steve,” he says slowly, even though his cheek is swelling and raw. “Sw – sweetheart,” he gets out, hoping the stammers don’t sound like fear. “Sweetheart, can I – can I touch you?”  
   
Steve flinches slightly at the slide of Tony’s palm against his cheek, but he doesn’t recoil completely. He certainly doesn’t assault him again. In this position, he’s able to smell the sweat on Tony’s wrist – probably scared, probably familiar, and undeniably omega. Which means, no threat.  
   
He shuffles slightly, moves his hands from Tony’s shoulders to bracket his head. He mumbles something, Tony only catches the tail end. “… in my bed?”  
   
_My bed,_ Tony doesn’t say. “I’m here for you,” Tony says again, softly, “Steve. Steve Rogers, I’m here for you.”  
   
Steve pushes his nose against Tony’s throat, scents him deeply. “Omega,” he mutters thickly.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, and spreads his legs. “Yes,” he says, staring up the ceiling.  
   
“You from – you from the town?” Steve asks him, voice muffled. “Don’t sound French.”  
   
Ah-hah. “No,” Tony says honestly, “I’m from New York.”  
   
Steve stops. He pulls back. “Home?” He slurs. “How’d a pretty thing like you end up here?”  
   
Tony doesn’t say, _because we’re in New York._ “I travel,” he says.  
   
“Fell in with a rough crowd, huh?” Steve is pressing kisses along his jaw. Tony turns his head to give him better access.  
   
“Something like that,” he says, not really knowing how to respond.  
   
“Miss, you smell like home,” Steve croaks out, voice thick. _Miss._ He really is in the old world, huh? Tony doesn’t think now is the right time to educate him on the sexual mores of breed terminology.  
   
“Steve,” Tony soothes, “Steve Rogers, it’s okay. Here,” he rests his hands on Steve’s cheeks, wipes his tears. “You’re safe now, aren’t you Steve? Safe right now, in this bed.”  
   
“Am I?”  
   
“You s-sure are,” Tony gets out, because Steve’s hands have tightened on his arms. “You sure are, Steve. You are so, so safe.”  
   
“But – the fighting?”  
   
“There’s no more fighting,” Tony says, deciding it’s suitably vague. “You can just sleep now.”  
   
“What about Bucky?” He mumbles, pressing his nose against Tony’s jaw.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “He’s safe too,” he lies.  
   
“You smell nice,” Steve rumbles, breath warm against his skin.  
   
Carefully, tentatively, Tony raises one of his hands, makes it cup the back of Steve’s head. “I’m here for you, Steve Rogers,” he says as calmly as he can. He strokes Steve’s hair.  
   
Something clicks in his hindbrain, and he buries his head in Tony’s shoulder. “I wanna go home,” he says, miserably, plaintive. “God, I wanna go home.”  
   
“I know,” Tony soothes, stroking his hair with both hands, holding him clasped against his chest, their bodies pressed together, legs intertwined. “I know you do, Steve. You will. You’re going to go home, and you’ll be – “ Tony’s throat is thick, he shuts his eyes. “You’ll be happy, I promise.”  
   
Steve’s arms are wrapping around him, less constricting, just – holding him. And he’s crying. Tony will deny it, tomorrow, or later on tonight, or whenever he has to confront it. He’ll never tell Steve what he saw. For now, he just strokes his hair, and lets him cry. “You’ll go home,” he whispers, eyes shut, rocking him slightly the way you would a child, “I promise, Steve, you’ll go home.”  
   
His nose is pressing into the soft spot behind Tony’s ear. “Sweet thing,” he murmurs, voice croaked and rasping, “you’re such a – such a sweet thing.”  
   
Tony pulls his head to the side, shuts his eyes and lets it happen. “Good bitch,” Steve rewards, mumbling, pushing up slightly on his forearms, “gonna treat you right.” His lips are so soft; when he fumbles his hands between them to bracket Tony’s head, it’s awkward, clumsy, unlike the Steve that Tony has grown used to these past few months.  
   
He pushes inside him gently, still kissing along Tony’s jaw, his throat, collarbones. “Beautiful boy,” he sighs, one hand curling in Tony’s hair, barely dominant. His thrusts are short, slow, like he’s afraid to make noise. “I’m not gonna share you. No way. I don’t want you in anyone else’s’ bed, you hear? I’m alpha, they know the line.”  
   
It’s pretty boring, but relatively satisfying, sex. Tony cups his head, lets his fingers brush through the blond hair, intimate. “I know my place,” he says, easily, “your bed only.”  
   
Steve lurches up, his thumbs pressing tight against Tony’s palms. When he comes, it’s muttering praise into his ears, all traditional stuff, sweet. Tony lets him pant his release into his throat, wonders if now he’ll roll over and fall back asleep. But then he realises that Steve is swelling inside him still, not pulling out, and – he grunts, shifting his legs wider to accommodate the knot. He hasn’t done this in years, not outside heat, and never with Steve.  
   
Whose eyes are clear, now, and looking down at him. “Stark,” he says, thickly. He scents like shame. Shame, shame, shame, and even distress, which upsets him.  
   
“It’s okay,” Tony sighs, because Steve is still hot inside him, twitching, and it’s a – unique feeling. Glorious. “Just a little late night roleplay, huh?”  
   
Steve’s eyes look guarded, like he’s embarrassed to take the excuse so readily proffered. “I don’t sleep well,” he says, stiffly. “This is why I don’t – I’m sorry.”  
   
“It’s fine. It’s – good, actually.”  
   
“Good?” Steve’s voice is hard. “Is this funny to you, Stark?”  
   
He doesn’t know how to say anything without fucking it up. “No,” he says levelly, and then skirts his eyes to the side. “I’m sorry. It’s just – I’m knotted.” In lieu of explanation; hormones do all kinds of weird things to the brain post-knot. Tony feels fucking euphoric. “I’m sorry, Steve, I’m not laughing at you. Please.”  
   
He cups his cheek and Steve twitches – into it. Shuts his eyes. _He’s scenting my wrist,_ Tony realises, drowsily.  
   
“I hit you,” Steve murmurs, not looking up.  
   
“No. You were confused.”  
   
“I would never – no excuse.”  
   
“Can I ask a question? Will you answer honestly?”  
   
Steve looks up at him.  
   
“How often do you wake up thinking your somewhere else?”  
   
“Every night,” he says, and Tony doesn’t know how to respond. So he wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, simple, easy, gives the kind of comfort only an omega can give.  
   
Steve is stiff, and then not. His hands move up Tony’s chest, bracketing him, safe and warm. _Please don’t cry again,_ Tony thinks, because hearing Steve cry is one of the worst things, unnatural, unbearable. He doesn’t know what he would do if he cried.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly, into his skin. “If I scared you. When I don’t stay – that’s why. I’m sorry, I should have known better, but – I was weak. When you have someone willing in your bed, and it’s warm, and… I should have known better.”  
   
“I can take it.”  
   
“Shouldn’t have to.” He grunts slightly, softening inside him.  
   
“Don’t pull out,” Tony blurts, quickly, gripping Steve’s shoulders. “No, don’t – it’s fine. Don’t rush it.”  
   
“You sure?”  
   
“I’m sure,” Tony sighs, relaxing back into the sheets. “Just stay.”  
   
He tangles his fingers with Steve’s. Like this, it’s nice to pretend.  
   
They fall back into silence. Tony thinks maybe Steve has gone to sleep – his own eyes feel heavy, contented. It’s such a fucking luxury to just be able to lie here this way.  
   
“I should – “ Steve murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “I should say, thank you.”  
   
“Mmm?” Tony presses, drowsily. They’re tangled again. Steve curled against his chest, their legs entwined, no saying where one starts and the other begins.  
   
Steve’s finger draws a figure of eight against his collarbone. “You didn’t have to go along with it,” he murmurs. “You could have pulled me back down to earth. Or laughed.”  
   
“I understand,” Tony says heavily, eyes closing.  
   
“Do you?”  
   
“I don’t like to sleep alone, Rogers. We all have nightmares.”  
   
Tony thinks he’s crying again. Eventually, he falls back into sleep. His cries become whimpers, which turn into breaths. Achingly, gently, Tony rolls him over, sets him back on his side of the bed. He drops his own head back down on the pillow. _I need to leave,_ he thinks, drowsily. And then he sleeps, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts on how their dynamic is shaping up are welcomed!


	6. stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for reference to past sexual assault

_This is a bad idea,_ Tony thinks.  
   
Blackmail aside, Tiberius’ security system probably _is_ good. No doubt, SHIELD will get to see everyone’s little secrets, because no one reads the fine print. Ty gets the money, SHIELD gets – world domination, probably. Tony gets an irritating problem off his back, and enough to time to dig through Ty’s private computer and delete any copies he has of incriminating footage.  
   
Face time with the brass is price Tony must pay. Ty had been quite insistent. Still, even now there’s a part of him that questions that rationale of letting his ex-boyfriend sit down next to his new lover. Fuckbuddy. Casual... sex-friend. Work-colleague that he – sleeps with. Yeah, that’ll do it.  
   
He listens to Ty talk, explaining financial projections and software compatibility and stuff that, in general, Tony already either knows or doesn’t matter, answering Fury’s questions. It’s hard to focus, he won’t deny. He thinks Steve’s eyes might be on him, but he ignores them. He’s not in the mood, and they haven’t even fucked since he accidentally punched him in bed, the bruise hastily concealed for this meeting.  
   
After, when the thanks have been said and Ty is preening, charming the brass, he’s taking Tony’s wrist. He jerks his chin. “What’s that?” He asks. “Make a lover mad?”  
   
He means the bruise, obviously. “Misjudged a projectile in training,” he lies, easily. “Why are you so interested in my lovers?”  
   
They follow the others out of the room, Ty watching Steve’s back down the hallway. And then he’s pulling him to the side, pushing him against the wall in a way that – it’s okay when Steve does it. _Only_ when Steve does it.  
   
“You have a type, evidently,” Ty says pointedly.  
   
“Yeah, assholes.”  
   
“Funny. I meant more blond-hair blue-eyed. I figure you always were a pusher.”  
   
That still cuts, stupidly. Even after all this time. “If you like Steve so much, why don’t you fuck him?” Tony hisses, ashamed at the petulance in his voice.  
   
“That would probably be your dream, huh?” Ty leans in against the wall, one arm bracketing Tony’s head. He’s safe, obviously. These are SHIELD’s New York headquarters. There are at least six security cameras in this hallway alone.  
   
“Yes, Ty, my number one sexual fantasy would be _you_ screwing Captain America. God, how do you know me so well?”  
   
“That fucking mouth, huh.” Ty says, thumbing his lower lip. “It was good, getting some face time with the big-wigs today. I always you knew would come in handy.”  
   
“You only love the things that are useful to you.”  
   
“I never loved you,” Ty says, easily.  
   
“True. I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone.”  
   
“I love money,” Ty reasons. “I love sex. You had both, in spades. I would have been a good husband, Tony.”  
   
He lets his head hit the back wall, just so he can bare his neck a little. The submission triggers something in Ty, and he eases off, peeling back from being so up in Tony’s personal space. “We would have made quite the power couple,” he agrees, trying to slide past Ty’s body.  
   
His arms slam into the wall, fast, fencing him in. “If you hadn’t turned me down,” he simpers. “Just think of the beautiful babies. Think of the _power.”_  
   
Tony lets his lips twitch upwards. “Ty, honey, I have more power in my pinky finger than you’ve ever had your whole life. Does it feel good? Hitching yourself to a bitch like me?”  
   
“Needs must.”  
   
“The only way you got this meeting was _me._ Remember that. You’d do well to avoid pissing me off.”  
   
Ty laughs, although he doesn’t sound humoured. “Oh, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”  
   
“I don’t need to tell you that footage is incriminating for both of us. You don’t exactly come out of it looking like a rose.”  
   
“I’ll just tell the truth.”  
   
“Which is?”  
   
“You changed your mind. How was I supposed to know?”  
   
“Funny, gags do that. Stop you from speaking, I mean.”  
   
“You loved it, really,” Ty says, leaning closer, breath hot and smelling – minty. He chews fucking spearmint gum, still? After all this time? Tony puts his hands between their chests, pushes him back a little. “You always liked to be treated badly.”  
   
Tony wants to say, _I like rough sex, that’s different,_ but the words don’t come out, for some reason. He wants to cover his nose – the scent of Ty’s breath is making him want to hurl.  
   
“We could be that again,” Ty continues. “We could be so much more.”  
   
“Are you seriously proposing? Here? Now?” Tony is starting to suspect the security system was only an excuse for meeting.  
   
“Aren’t you something special, with your suits, and your team, and your tower.” Ty’s pupils are blown, slightly. “You’re the most special omega that’s ever lived.” _I would like to own you,_ goes unsaid.  
   
Tony smiles, politely. Ducks his head. “You always did like to collect special things,” he says.  
   
“Do you want me to get down on one knee?”  
   
“No. I’d like for you to get out of my face.”  
   
Ty’s face falls. See, he always did have this – uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the centre of his world, the most important thing in existence, until you told him no. Tony has met toddlers who take being told no better than Ty.  
   
“It’s not because you’re worth it,” he sneers, abruptly. “Don’t go thinking it’s because you’re pretty, or rich. I can have all the pretty, rich omegas I want.”  
   
“I don’t doubt it,” Tony says, trying to duck under his arms.  
   
Ty grabs his jaw, his nails dig into the flesh of his cheek. “Don’t you look away,” he says, breathing in Tony’s face, “look at me when I talk to you.”  
   
Despite himself, Tony does. _This is temporary,_ he thinks. Ty is a lot taller than him, taller than even Steve. He drags up his hand so Tony has to go up on his toes.  
   
He walks him back against the wall. “I can have anyone, understand? Do you know how many fathers are tripping over themselves to contract their sweet little virginal bitches to me? _That’s_ the kind of pulling power I have, Tony.”  
   
He grips Ty’s wrist. “I already said, I don’t doubt it,” he hisses.  
   
“Look at me,” he orders, even though Tony already _is._ “This isn’t going to end, you hear me? Not even you can find where I’ve put those tapes. I’ve got digital copies, physical copies, and there is nothing in this world that would make me give them up. Not any meeting, no amount of money, you hear? Not unless I had some guarantee that you and I, that we would be a team. You understand, don’t you?”  
   
“I’m not contracting you,” Tony says, shortly. “I already told you no.”  
   
Ty smushes Tony’s cheeks together, pulls him sharply forward. “Then I will fucking destroy you.”  
   
Tony smacks away his grip. “You can try,” he shoots back. “You have a lot of nerve, touching me here.”  
   
“Where are your friends, Tony?” Ty mocks him. “The Captain loves you so much he went off and left you with another alpha, an ex no less.”  
   
Tony’s cell phone buzzes in his front pocket. Ty recoils, like the thought that other people exist and he can’t actually beat Tony to a pulp in the hallways of SHIELD had escaped him. “Answer it,” he orders, voice thin.  
   
“Nah. I think I’d like to let it ring, send some people looking. What do you think?”  
   
“Answer the fucking call, Stark.”  
   
Tony smirks. He fishes it out. The photo ID for Steve is a picture from a textbook, his face grinning with red, chipmunked cheeks. About as far from the Steve Tony knows as he can get. “Hello?” He answers calmly, watching Ty’s eyes.  
   
“Where are you? Chopper’s set to leave.”  
   
“Sorry. Thought we had more time. Wasn’t Ty supposed to leave first?”  
   
“No, there’s been a change in order. He’s taking the car now, security reasons. Tell him another jet will be sent to pick him up from a secure location, they just need to put some distance between him and us first.”  
   
“Steve says, you’re taking a car,” Tony says, making sure Ty knows that Steve knows he’s there. “Sorry. I know it’s not the style you like.”  
   
“Oh no,” Ty says, voice eminently reasonable, “no worries. I don’t like all that wind screwing with my hair, anyway.”  
   
“Great. I’m coming _right now,_ Steve,” Tony says pointedly. “I will be there in _two minutes.”_  
   
“Hurry up,” Steve says shortly, and hangs up.  
   
He can feel Ty’s eyes on his back as he walks away. It sets him on edge, more on edge than he should be. He needs to protect his back, he thinks. The urge to look over his shoulder is overwhelming, but he resists, if only out of spite.  
   
Steve is standing, back to the helicopter, arms crossed. “You’re late,” he says, irritated.  
   
“I’m not a future-teller, Rogers,” Tony mutters tersely. “How was I supposed to know the order had changed?”  
   
“Was Stone happy?”  
   
“I’m not sure he got what he wanted.” Tony isn’t in the mood to talk. He crosses his arms, stares at the window.  
   
“You smell like shit.”  
   
“Leave me alone, Rogers.” He realises he had nail marks crescent-ed around his mouth and cheeks. He rests his chin on his hand to hide them, hope Steve hasn’t noticed.  
   
“Okay then,” Steve says, simply. “Not like you not be chatty, is all.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees, listlessly. He’s thinking, disobeying Ty was fine in the moment, but what next? He still has that footage. He can be impulsive – it was one of his least favourite things about him, the way he would just _do_ things, awful things, sometimes, and not just stop to fucking think. That’s what narcissism does to a person, he figures.  
   
He chews his thumb. He’s twitching his leg, but he’s not aware of it until Steve asks him to stop. “Huh?”  
   
“You’re – jiggling, did you know that? And sucking your thumb.”  
   
Tony abruptly crosses his arms, embarrassed at being caught out. “Chewing,” he says, “and no, I didn’t.”  
   
“You’re nervous.”  
   
“I’m not.”  
   
“Is there something I can help with?”  
   
“I’m fine.”  
   
Steve gets the message, then. When Tony starts chewing his nail again, he doesn’t comment on it.  
   
   
He finds out, later that day. Car crash. Internal decapitation. Quadriplegic.  
   
Steve reads the news over his shoulder. “Huh,” he says, shaking his head. “I guess he’s going to be keeping his hands to himself from now on.”  
   
   
He’s stupid, though. He doesn’t figure it out right away. It’s not until late evening that he’s letting himself into Steve’s apartment, trailing his way to the bedroom, scotch and tumbler in hand.  
   
He doesn’t knock on the bedroom door, they’re way past knocking. Steve is naked except for the briefs Tony told Natasha to buy him, channel surfing. “Hello,” he says, not peeling his eyes away from the TV.  
   
“You killed my boyfriend.”  
   
“Ex=boyfriend. And he’s not dead.”  
   
“Not yet. What prompted that?”  
   
Steve sets down the remote. “You’re not angry, are you?”  
   
“I don’t know yet. Tell me what prompted it, and I’ll decide.”  
   
Steve’s brow is furrowed, slightly. Like he’s fretting. And then the whole thing comes tumbling out. “I don’t know why you let him touch you,” he says, like it’s an admission. “I could tell you didn’t like him, right from the start. And then he said he wanted to see you, and I just _knew –_ you weren’t happy about it. I didn’t listen on purpose, I just thought… in case he tried to hurt you. I just felt he wanted to hurt you. I could sense it. I have good instincts, Tony.”  
   
“You do,” he allows, setting the scotch on the chest of drawers, opening it to start the search for the nightclothes he knows he keeps in there.  
   
“I didn’t hear all of it. Just up until he touched you. Then I left.”  
   
“And put in some calls, had some things moved about, huh?”  
   
“No. I changed up the order first. Then, when we got on the helicopter, I could tell you were upset. I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been upset. I don’t know,” Steve says, crawling to the end of the bed, sitting there. “Are you mad at me?”  
   
Tony deliberates. “If you’re going to do that, you need to let me know. We need to do it together, or else there can be implications. United front.”  
   
“Next time I’ll tell you,” Steve tells him, earnestly. “I’ll make sure.”  
   
“Good,” Tony says succinctly, and then, because it’s nagging at him, “by the way, sometimes it’s just easier to allow yourself to be touched. Even if they hurt you. Especially if you’re getting something in return.”  
   
Steve is silent for a time while Tony rifles through his clothes. He was so sure he stashed his night pants here. Maybe in the other drawer?  
   
“You say that,” Steve’s voice comes from behind him, “and I think maybe you’re talking about me.”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about you, Jesus.”  
   
“It’s just I think – last month. You’re still bruised.”  
   
“Steve,” he starts, frustrated.  
   
“And I don’t want to think… I don’t want to think I’m _that_ to you. I always tell myself you want it. You do want it, don’t you?”  
   
Tony shuts the drawer, throws his sleep clothes on a chair. “Do I seem like the type of person to just lie back and take it?”  
   
“No,” Steve says, and Tony can tell he’s choosing his next words very carefully. “But I was thinking, about all that stuff you said. Using your body for things, and I thought – well, maybe there are things you want from me. Not – not material things, not – that’s not what I mean. But you think if I’m on your side, you have a… that I’m on your side. Maybe, I don’t hurt you if I’m your side. I vouch for you with Fury. Things like that.”  
   
“Maybe,” Tony says, picking at the buttons of his shirt. It’s not sexual; he’s just exhausted. “Steve, lots of things are transactions. It doesn’t make them wrong.”  
   
“But if you let me do the things I do because it’s a transaction, not because you like it,” Steve presses. “Then I’m no different to him, really. Or any of them. Because I’m just using you, and you take all that awful shit, even if you don’t like it.”  
   
“Or I’m using you,” Tony says tiredly. “Does it matter? As it happens, I sometimes like having my hair pulled and my face slapped, okay? We’ve been over it. Stop overthinking it.”  
   
“You would have used Stone once,” Steve says quietly. “And he would have given you things you needed, at the time. But that didn’t stop you from flinching when he touched you, and I’ll bet, Tony, that it didn’t make the things he did feel good, or not hurt.”  
   
Tony shrugs off his shirt, pulls on the silk night-pants Natasha got him for his birthday. “Are you coming to bed?” He asks, in lieu of a response.  
   
“Is that a good idea?”  
   
“Jesus, look, if you try to throttle me I’ll just have Jarvis – do something, I don’t know.” Tony sighs, sits himself at the foot of the bed. “You’ve got yourself all worked up,” he mumbles, and rests his hand on Steve’s knee.  
   
Steve doesn’t look at him. “You’re a good guy, Tony.”  
   
“I know. Thanks, but – I know.”  
   
Steve half-laughs. He lets Tony rest his chin on his shoulder, draw a figure of eight on his knee. “I have another question, actually.”  
   
“If I answer, will you come to bed?”  
   
“That sounds a like deal,” Steve says, warmly. “I was wondering – you said Stone had footage, that it was incriminating.”  
   
Oh boy. “He did.”  
   
“I don’t know, I guess I just thought – sex is sex, right? You already have sex tapes online.”  
   
“And how would you know that, Steve?”  
   
He cheeks don’t even flush when he says: “Because I’ve looked them up. I was trying to think, what could be _so_ embarrassing that even you don’t want it released?”  
   
Tony thinks. He takes Steve’s hand, turns it over so it’s palm-up, keeps drawing the figure of eight there. “Image is everything,” he says, frowning.  
   
“What’s the difference between this one and the others?”  
   
“People know I’m a slut,” Tony tells him. “It’s not a surprise. Uh,” he doesn’t really know how to explain. “The video Ty had – the pictures, too. They were _particularly_ incriminating, just because…”  
   
Because? How to say it. “What I mean,” he continues, still focused on Steve’s hand, “is that – those tapes, the ones online, I mean, they show me having great sex, having a great time. And while most people will see them and think, damn, that bitch is a whore, they’ll also come away with – on some level, an awareness that I was in control of the situation, and I control myself, and they can’t – touch me. Does that make sense?”  
   
“Interesting PR decision.”  
   
Tony snorts. “Yeah, well obviously it wasn’t my decision to have them released in the first place. Not the point, though. I don’t care.”  
   
“But Stone?”  
   
“He had, uh,” Tony exhales, “the stuff he had, it – had me in a compromising position.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve says, slowly.  
   
The skin of his palm is surprisingly smooth beneath Tony’s fingertip. No callouses, not even one. “And I guess, it showed I… wasn’t in control of that situation. If you understand what I mean.”  
   
Steve curls his hand. Catches Tony’s wrist. “Do you want me to finish the job?” He asks, voice low. Earnest.  
   
Tony kisses his cheek. “No, bad boy. I think he’s learnt his lesson. Will you come to bed, now?”  
   
Steve nods. Tony doesn’t sleep, not straight away; he listens to Steve’s even breathing, his thick arms curled around Tony’s chest. He nearly killed Stone for a few bad words and one bad touch.  
   
Imagine what he else he could do, it he was pushed in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments loved. weird chapter, would like to know what u think!


	7. stairs

Fury says, they took the betas out back and shot them. And then, they made the alphas watch when they took turn with the omegas, all three of them, one by one.  
   
He clicks a button, the slideshow moves on. A picture of a small village, somewhere in Eastern Europe. Old Nazis who figure themselves HYDRA’s spiritual successor. The few shop-fronts burnt husks. And then a photo, with the upper face blurred, of a young man, bleeding from the mouth, dead on the floor.  
   
Tony is paying attention. He _was_ paying attention. Recently, when confronted with awful things – his brain doesn’t like it. Shuts off. Not always, never in combat, just – his cellphone is safe. The game of tetris he’s been playing on an off for the past week? Safe. Awful things happen every day, all across the world, he rationalises. Tonight, he’ll track the bastards down. He’ll neuter them before turning them in.  
   
“I can see I’m boring you,” Fury calls, breaking Tony’s reverie. “Seeing as From Stark has lost his focus, now would be as good a time as any to take a break.”  
   
He can feel Steve’s eyes on him. “Coffee,” he says, “you coming?”  
   
“Come with me,” Steve says instead, “I need to show you something.”  
   
Tony wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather have coffee.”  
   
“Come with me,” Steve says again, and this time, Tony gets it, almost; his eyes are hard.  
   
“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, “Christ, okay Mr Caveman, I get it.”  
   
“I don’t think you do,” Steve says lightly, fixing his hand on Tony’s nape, steering him through SHIELD hallways. “You will, by the time I’m finished.”  
   
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
“After you,” Steve says politely, holding open a door.  
   
Tony pauses. “Are you kidding?”  
   
“After you,” he insists, glaring. It’s a short, tense stand-off, that Tony predictably loses.  
   
Two steps over the threshold into a dank stairwell, and Steve’s fist is in his hair, pushing him forward. “You think your behaviour back there was conducive to a good work environment, Tony?”  
   
He laughs. “You’re such a skeez, Rogers.”  
   
He throws him forward into the railing. “You’re not cute, Stark.”  
   
Tony is still laughing when he turns around, leaning back against the barrier. “I’m not trying to be,” he smirks. Steve is just too easy.  
   
“That was important, back there. What world do you live in that you think extra-judicial murder and torture isn’t something worth listening to?”  
   
“Jesus, Rogers, it was a tick-box exercise. You don’t seriously think Fury gives a shit – “  
   
“I seriously think,” Steve snarls, stepping forward, “that you need to shut the fuck up.”  
   
Tony recoils. Steve… isn’t joking. He means that. Tony holds up his hands. “Okay,” he says, “whatever you say, big guy.”  
   
“I ought to knot you right here, have you crawl back naked, and let you offer Fury your reparations on your hands and knees,” Steve tells him, coldly. “I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, your _bad behaviour_ reflects badly on all of it. It makes us look uncoordinated, it makes me look weak.”  
   
Tony wants to say, _you’re wrong, that’s not how it works now,_ but on some level, he thinks Steve is right.  
   
And Steve’s voice isn’t brooking any complaint.  
   
He swallows. “You know I love it when you get all Brooklyn-rough, Rogers.”  
   
Steve’s eyes narrow. “Do you think I’m joking, Stark?”  
   
“I didn’t say that,” Tony starts, choosing his words carefully. “I’m just saying, I like your whole – you know,” is he – is he fumbling for words? No, that’s not it, that can’t be it. “Uh,” he gestures with his hands, “this. Very alpha, very nice.”  
   
“You’ve never been taken in hand in your life, have you?”  
   
“Other than the occasional masturbation,” Tony says seriously. And regrets it almost immediately when Steve doesn’t laugh, or smile, or – react, in any discernible way.  
   
He takes a step back.  
   
“Now you get it,” Steve says slowly, rolling up his sleeves.  
   
“What are you going to do to me?” Tony asks, unnerved, watching his fingers, his broad forearms.  
   
Steve moves forward, casually, with an easy grace. “Did I ever tell you about the bitch from La Rochelle?”  
   
“No, but I sense that you’re about to.”  
   
He brackets him against the railing, completely; there’s nowhere to go but down, eight stories high. “He was a pretty little thing,” Steve starts, unbuttoning Tony’s vest with his fingers. “I think you would have been like him, when you were younger. Not submissive, except in bed, and absolute fire in the sack. He was witty, too. Clever, fast. Buck was very sweet on him,” he remembers, “more so than most of us.”  
   
He moves on to Tony’s tie, undoing the knot and sliding it across his shoulders, shoving it in his back pocket. “One day,” he continues, plucking at the buttons of Tony’s shirt, “Buck’s satchel goes missing. Now, he doesn’t remember so well, because he was drunk out of his damn head, but he knows for sure he and the pretty bitch were fooling around, drinking, smoking, having fun. And after he wakes up, the bitch is missing, and his satchel – with everything, all his money, his tickets, his photographs from home? – all gone.”  
   
“Because, he stole it,” Tony says, as Steve reaches the last button.  
   
His smile is cold. “Because he stole it,” he agrees, pulling Tony’s shirt and vest down over his shoulders, baring his chest. It’s cold in the stairwell, near freezing, in fact.  
   
“Now, it was my camp, Stark. I had to keep it in order, understand? If I let him get away with it, I’d have to let them all get away with it. And he never admitted to it himself, we had to catch him red handed, like the thief he was.”  
   
His hand snakes up Tony’s back, fists in his hair, pulls back his head. His free fingers are loosening the catch on Tony’s pants. “Do you know what I did to him?”  
   
“Punished him,” Tony murmurs, eyes cloaked, watching Steve’s every move.  
   
“Louder.”  
   
“Punished him,” he says again. His voice echoes.  
   
“Damn right. We caught him red handed, so I made sure he got my handprint on his ass that night. And after I’d bent him over my lap, I had him crawl through the mud to Buck’s tent. And can you guess what Buck did then?”  
   
Tony swallows, grits his jaw. “Punished him,” he says, loudly.  
   
“So you do learn,” Steve smirks, delicately gripping his chin between forefinger and thumb. “We left him outside the cops with money for services rendered stuffed inside his pretty lace panties, and you tell me, Stark – do you think he ever tried to steal again?”  
   
“Well,” he says, “he certainly learnt never to steal from _you_ again.”  
   
“Good enough,” Steve says cruelly. “Say no,” he tells him, standing, gripping Tony’s nape in his palm.  
   
Is it defiance or masochism that makes Tony say nothing? Steve laughs, but it’s mocking. “If you’d ever been disciplined properly, you’d have said no,” he says, drawing Tony’s back to his chest, and steering him from the nape.  
   
He bends him over the railing, spanks him once, twice. “I’d put you over my knee if I had a chair,” he says casually, “act like a child, get treated like a child.”  
   
Bratty. Tony’s heard that before, from many lover’s lips. They all think they can fuck with his hindbrain – that they’ll be the one to crack him like a nut, tame the untameable, have him eating out of their hand like a pretty pony. “If you say so,” he grits out, because Steve’s nails are digging into the sensitive skin behind his neck, and he’s just laid another bruising blow against the soft spot where ass meets thigh.  
   
“I’m not gonna beat you,” Steve tells him, like he’s discussing the weather. “Take off those shoes. Get those pants down from around your knees, too. If someone’s going to see you, they’re going to see you naked, like you deserve.”  
   
Oof. If _that_ isn’t a masochistic punch to the gut. “Steve,” Tony starts, not sure if he really wants to try and stop him, “I don’t need to tell you that – things are different. People might get the wrong impression if they see me – “  
   
“Oh, they’ll get an impression alright,” Steve tells him, brusquely kicking apart his legs. “If I were you, I’d keep my voice low. You don’t want to attract attention.”  
   
And what. Have some low-level beta tech come running, seeing his moon ass bent over a railing, red with Steve’s print? Put in his place, is what they would say, probably.  
   
Steve fucks into him. It’s brutal. There is no prep. Tony is wet enough, because would you believe, tales about dirty, bratty omegas being stripped and spanked kinda does something for him, but still. It’s the principle. Tony wants to say something witty, like maybe, _what, you’re not even going to take me on a date first?_ Or something equally stupid.  
   
   
But “ugh,” is what Tony can manage. He thinks he might be trying to say _yes, yes, yes,_ because Steve is ramming him hard, fast, with no consideration for his pleasure and yet somehow hitting the right spot inside him every damn time. He’s sucking greedily on his fingers, letting them spread his cheeks wide, all the spittle and fluid soaking down his chin.  
   
Steve shifts him. He grunts, and lifts Tony’s hips, bends him over the railing so his chest is hanging over air, the only thing stopping gravity from doing it’s job is _Steve,_ Steve and his thick wide fingers pressing bruises into his waist, the grip of his wrist holding back his head, easily powerful, completely in control. There’s an instinctual panic; Tony’s stupidly socked toes tighten on the rail, he makes a pathetic whimpering noise, but Steve doesn’t even break stride.  
   
He just fucks him and fucks him until Tony’s eyes are rolling back in his head. He stops caring about the grip of the metal pressing into his stomach, or that he’s bent over naked in a stairwell with a very-clothed Steve fucking him like it’s all he’s there for. Steve’s hand shifts, moves from his mouth to his throat and tightens just slightly. Without the gag, Tony is free to listen to his own moaning, huffing, and occasional pleads for more, harder, c’mon Captain, more now, please, don’t leave me hanging –  
   
He steadies Tony’s lower back then _rams_ into him, forcefully, enough that he stops his whining and gasps, moans, and comes. Steve doesn’t even break stride; Tony’s completion isn’t the point. “You can be a nice little cum-dump when you want to be, huh sweetheart?” He sweats, smacking Tony’s ass to make him clench.  
   
He sounds sloppy, wet, messy. His thoughts go in this order: _Steve, Steve, pleasure, bad, pleasure, Steve._ It’s hard to think of anything at all, save for the cock in his ass. “Knot me,” he moans, “oh fuck, knot me, Captain.”  
   
Steve huffs a laugh. “Aww,” he says, “you want my knot, darling?”  
   
“Yeah,” he croaks, raw. “Fuck, make me take it, Captain.”  
   
“You want me to knot your ass? Come inside you like that?” Steve’s voice is hard, panting. Briefly, bizarrely, Tony thinks – that must be psychosomatic, right? There’s no way he’s out of breath.  
   
Tony’s tongue traces his lower lip. He knows what Steve wants to hear, he thinks. “Knot me like I deserve,” he breathes, “I fucking deserve it, to have my – my pussy used by you, _fuck._ However you want me, just use me. _”_  
  
“Knot you like you deserve, huh?” Steve is saying, pulling out, wet and sloppy, the air stinking of Tony’s scent, heavy with lust and something even worse – almost like a heat, the pheromones drawn out by Steve’s dominance play. “Use you.”  
   
It hurts to have his hair pulled, Steve steering him like he can’t waste the words on instructions, tugging him back off the railing, pulling him down to his knees. “Is the floor cold, sweetheart?” He mocks, kicking apart Tony’s bent knees with his boot.  
   
Tony drags a shaky hand across his mouth, wipes an errant strand of drool. “Yes,” he says, blinking up at him, shocked but not exploring the docility with which he’d replied.  
   
Steve slaps him, three fingers, once, twice, against his cheek. Tony’s prick is so fucking hard, he can feel the slick wet on his thighs, thick inside his hole, slipping out of him humiliatingly, dribbling onto the concrete. “You like that, yeah?” Steve says roughly, gripping his hair, shaking him. “You like it when I treat you like that, Stark?”  
   
Tony takes himself in hand, squeezes his cock, lifting up on his heels slightly. “Yes,” he croaks, distantly aware that – fuck, he’ll regret admitting it later, right? Too much ammunition. “I want to be taken in hand, I fucking deserve it.”  
   
One hand still in his hair, the other pinching at his lips, feeding fingers into his mouth between gum and cheek, because he can, because Tony would never bite back, docile as he is, and Steve knows it. He pulls back Tony’s head, takes back his hand, and works his cock. “This is what happens,” he says, voice a mix of solemn and lust-laden croak. “I didn’t want to do this, Stark,” he lies, “but sometimes, bad boys need to be taught a lesson.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like the dumb fucking slut he is. His brain is cooked out, not working; it doesn’t even occur to him until Steve is using him like a fucktoy, steering from his hair, that he was close to knotting.  
   
He gags, coughs around the thick skin in his mouth, against his tongue, pushing against the back of his throat. “That’s it,” Steve eases, grunting as he sighs, head back, uncaring of Tony’s distress, “such a good fucking bitch now, huh? Finally learnt your lesson.”  
   
Tony wants him to say worse. He wants to hear Steve heap praise on his ability, call him out for being the dirty whore he really is, drooling around alpha dick in a stairwell, naked in public, hands and knees on the floor where he belongs. Maybe to alleviate the pain of Steve’s fingers in his hair, or just to touch him, any part of him, he reaches up his hands to curl around Steve’s fists, kneels there while he fucks his throat and just takes it, drooling with no protest.  
   
“I’d,” Steve groans, pulling out, fisting himself, watching Tony’s sloppy red mouth cough and drool his pre-come down his chin, “keep you,” he says, pushing back in, the wet sound of fucking thick in the air, “on your knees always, you know that? Fury would agree. We could work out an arrangement, some kind of – contract.”  
   
The curling, wiry hairs of his groin are tickling Tony’s nose as he pushes in so deeply Tony feels the bulge in his throat; he can’t breathe. He can, but – he can’t. He wants to beg so fucking bad. _Please, Captain,_ he wants to say, _please, Sir._ He’ll do it on his hands and knees, if that’s what Steve wants.  
   
“Oh, _fuck,”_ Steve is moaning, coming, finally. “Fucking hell, that mouth – Jesus, Stark, fuck,” he breathes, using Tony’s mouth to push into the pleasure, “you swallow that come, don’t you, you filthy whore. God, that’s it, Stark, you beautiful bitch. You beautiful fucking bitch.”  
   
Tony feels him swelling, pushing past his lips; his mouth stretches to accommodate, but his jaw – it _hurts,_ he’s so stiff. Panicky, like a spooked animal, he shuffles on his knees, tilts up his chin, blinking up at Steve. “Easy now,” Steve is soothing, “easy, Stark. Relax. Let it happen.” He’s cupping Tony’s jaw, his thumb tracing the slight bulge in Tony’s throat from accommodating the – the entirety of Steve’s knot, lips pressed to his groin in a constant kiss, his balls heavy against Tony’s chin.  
   
“That’s it,” Steve sighs, bracing his hands on his hips, leaning back slightly, shoulders squared, as if stretching his back. “Good boy,” he says, absently patting Tony’s hair, “don’t fight it,” he advises, “relax your muscles, let it happen. Swallow _everything.”_  
   
Tony is helpless. He thinks his jaw might break. His eyes are stinging, his chest damp with his own drool, and his prick – is still so fucking hard against his belly. “What was I saying?” Steve asks casually, shifting forward slightly which means nothing to him, but drives the knot further against Tony’s throat, the slow pumping of come into his belly triggering a weak coughing fit, seed just slipping through the corners of his mouth. “About your rightful place. I’d keep you here permanently if I could, Stark. What do you think? You’d be a good come-dump, full-time. It would certainly keep you out of trouble.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, hands grasping to fist his hot, swollen prick, to finger his sloppy pussy. “No,” Steve orders shortly, kicking his hands away. The sole of his boot rubs once, hard, against Tony’s cock; his eyes water, his prick jerks.  
   
“Oh, you like that?” Steve smirks. He’s bracing his hands against the railing, as if to support his weight. The tip of his boot, well-polished, rubs so gently against his balls, rolling his sack against the leather. “Poor bitch,” he says, voice saccharine sweet and mocking in a way Steve would never be outside _this,_ whatever this is. “They’re so heavy.”  
   
Tony wants to nod. He can’t. Instead, he swallows around Steve’s cock and is rewarded with a shiver of gratification. Steve pushes his boot between Tony’s legs; the leather, the laces, scratching against his hole. And then the mortification is so fucking heated, burning, that Tony feels his entire body flush, can only shut his eyes against it. Steve is tsk-ing. “Look at that,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping all over my new boot.”  
   
He digs the tip of his shoe, the hard point where the sole meets leather, against Tony’s stretched hole. Rubs it there, and Tony hates himself, loves it, but hates himself, when he sits himself off his heels to lower himself against the leather as best he can, just for the sensation of something hard and thick pushing against the soft, needy flesh.  
   
“You fucking would,” Steve tells him, voice hard, pulling back his boot. “That’s how desperate you are. That’s your punishment, you know that, Stark? No more pretence, is there? You sat in that meeting like not a single voice other than yours mattered, and now look. Look,” he orders. “I said, _look.”_  
   
Tony opens his eyes, strains upward best he can. His vision is blurry, slightly, fuzzy with unshed tears, the pressure of keeping position. Steve’s hand cups his cheek, thumb strokes over his temple. “Jesus,” he mutters, wiping absently at a tear, “if you knew how you looked right now, Stark.”  
   
The knot is deflating. Tony is able to cough, fully, wet and rasping. His throat is going to be fucked – literally. God knows what he’s going to sound like, if he’ll even have a voice. “That’s it,” Steve soothes, fucking himself against his tongue once, twice, and then slipping free, finally. Tony’s jaw feels like – swollen, or broken. There’s no real pain, but the _ache._  
   
He sits back on his heels, draws a hand across his sloppy chin. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes cast down, voice like a truck across gravel, “I hope you accept my – “ he has to cough, come at the back of his throat, “my reparation,” he finishes, massaging his throat.  
   
“Hey, hey,” Steve chides, gripping Tony’s chin, lifting it while his eyes slide desperately to the peripherals, refuse to meet his gaze. “Feeling better? Got some of that energy out, huh?”  
   
Tony doesn’t respond straight away; Steve runs his thumb over Tony’s swollen bottom lip, swipes at some of the spit on his chin, patient. “You’re going to go back there,” he orders, “and you’re going to listen to everything Fury tells you. Agreed?”  
   
Tony tips back his head. Exhales. “Agreed,” he breathes, eyes shut.  
   
“Good boy,” Steve says, almost – fondly? Tony can’t tell. “You should clean up this mess, first. Wouldn’t want some tech finding it, would we?”  
   
“The guy that works the security cameras is going to have a field day,” Tony croaks, swallowing hard against his bruised tonsils.  
   
“I’ll deal with Richards. We have an understanding.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony finds the spunk from somewhere, “you have an _understanding.”_  
   
“Don’t be bratty.” Steve rests his hand on Tony’s head, pushes him down to the floor. “You made a mess of my shoe. I’m not walking around with _that_ on my boot.”  
   
He makes him lick the worst of it from the floor, too. He’s aware of what he must look like; there’s a pit, in his stomach, he wants both to believe that Steve is watching, and that he isn’t. By the time he’s finished, he’s almost disappointed to find that he’s been collecting Tony’s clothes, paying the omega licking the floor no mind.  
   
“Up,” he says, gently, gripping Tony’s hands and helping him stagger to his feet. “Pants. Shirt.”  
   
Tony doesn’t ask what happened to his briefs. He puts on the pants, lets Steve button up the shirt, straighten his tie. Frowning, he flattens Tony hair, or tries to; “They’re going to think we’ve had a fight,” he tells him.  
   
“Haven’t we?”  
   
“Cute. Shoes,” he prompts, kicking them in Tony’s direction.  
   
Tony straightens, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as if the repeated action will bring down his obviously swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, sweaty brow, submissive demeanour, like a bitch that just got their ass handed to them. “How do I look?”  
   
Steve considers. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning with his finger. “I need to fix something.”  
   
“Is it my collar? Does it look fucke – oof.”  
   
Steve kisses him. Steve has never kissed him before, not like this – not outside of being rammed on his back, or dicked against a wall. His tongue does most of the work, his arm curling behind Tony’s waist, his teeth pulling at Tony’s lower lip. He feels exhausted, spent, and now this – it’s easy to relinquish. To let go, and lean into it.  
   
Steve slowly breaks away, Tony chasing his lips as he leaves. “There,” he says, sounding pleased with himself, thumbing Tony’s lip once more. “Now you look fucked, huh?” He smacks his ass, jerks his head. “Get moving, soldier. And don’t let me catch you with that damn phone again.”  
   
“Yessir,” Tony slurs, only half joking, stumbling slightly. “Whatever you say, Captain.”  
   
He thinks, Fury knows. They’ll all know, now. When he sits there, hands folded in front of him, slightly spaced out but giving that damn presentation his attention to the best of his ability. Prick still hard in his pants, legs spread beneath the table, not even allowed to wear underwear. He thinks, this is the punishment; still leaking, phantom hands on his skin, while Steve smirks, and they all know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> out of interest, how many people would be interested if I started a patreon? Obviously u don't have to be, it just might be a cool place for me to post more snippets like this one and chapter previews, plus maybe all the unfinished stuff that's mostly plotted and has full scenes that I'll never finish? and I guess there's also the chapters for the stuff I have on the backburner like sharp teeth, bicameral minds, etc. where some people might be interested in snippets while waiting for actual chapters? plus all the porn that's just.... too dirty to even post here, i guess. i don't really know how it works, but i guess you can sort of set your own price? it wouldn't be high. i'm just trying to gauge if there's interest or not, you know?
> 
> anyway, your opinions, as always, are the only things that keep me posting!


	8. fury

He was expecting the call. There’s nothing in this world that Fury sees and doesn’t try to use against you.  
   
“Believe me,” he’s saying, looking genuinely pained, “I don’t want to have this conversation any more than you do.”  
   
Tony’s instinct is to cover his face and groan, but he can’t allow that. Fucking hell. This is worse than the time Howard sat him down to explain that he was going to be contracted and how _exactly_ Mr Cain wanted him to behave. Instead, he keeps his features calm, unperturbed. “What do you want to know?”  
   
“I can’t ignore what happened the other week,” Fury tells him impassively.  
   
“Understandably.”  
   
“The Captain can be – old fashioned.”  
   
“He can,” Tony agrees.  
   
“What I need to know is – “ Fury sighs, heavily, “for various reasons, obviously, your safety being paramount and… just so we’re clear. You were,” he’s squinting at the note on his desk, “a happy, healthy, and enthusiastic participant.”  
   
Tony hides his smirk. “I was.”  
   
“Good,” Fury mutters, ticking something off a list. Then he’s lacing his fingers together, thumbs twiddling. Here it comes, Tony thinks.  
   
“How long has it been going on?”  
   
“Since New York.”  
   
“That long?”  
   
“Mmm.” Tony almost adds, _don’t use helicarrier conference room C._  
   
“He treat you right?”  
   
“Mostly. We’re not…” a long pauses. “You know, it’s mostly a – physical thing.”  
   
“I gathered. He seems fond of you.”  
   
“Does he?”  
   
“The incident with Stone.”  
   
“Ah, yes. Yeah, I don’t know if ‘fond’ is the word, exactly. Protective. He says I’m one of his own, whatever that means.”  
   
“He’s traditional. We always knew that.”  
   
“He certainly knows how to keep me in line,” Tony smiles, tightly.  
   
“And you, him,” Fury notes. “Alpha like that – I suppose to him it’s only natural that you two would…”  
   
“Probably,” Tony agrees. “Maybe biologists are right on that one.”  
   
Fury takes that in his stride. “You seem to have a firm grip on him.”  
   
“I’d like to think so.”  
   
A beat. “You know what I think, Stark?”  
   
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”  
   
“I think you have far more control of him than he does of you. He just doesn’t even realise it.”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
“He trusts you.”  
   
“As much as he would any friend.”  
   
“Not every friend has his ear the way you do. Pillow talk can be very persuasive.”  
   
Tony leans back in his chair, narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”  
   
Fury folds his hands. “You know what I want,” he says, placidly.  
   
“I’m not a prostitute.”  
   
“I agree. But this wouldn’t be your first contract for personal gain.”  
   
“You mean, for _your_ gain.”  
   
“I’m not saying it needs to be long term,” Fury continues, resolutely, reasonably. “A year. Six months.”  
   
“I’m not doing that. I don’t do that. Enter contracts, I mean, not anymore.”  
   
“It’s not about you. Do it for _him._ For the country.”  
   
“You’re asking me to become his fuck-toy. In the name of America.”  
   
Fury leans back in his chair, shrugs. “So be it, if that’s what he wants. If that’s what he needs.”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “You’d let him have me if that’s what he asked for, even if I went kicking and screaming.”  
   
He shrugs. “I’m asking nicely.”  
   
Tony leans forward, hands on the desk, enunciating clearly: “I said, _no.”_  
   
“I might not ask nicely, in the future.”  
   
Tony squares his jaw. _Like fuck,_ he thinks, viciously. “Bullshit,” he says, “you haven’t got the balls. You’d never be able to. You couldn’t afford to. The second you try anything you can forget Iron Man. Everything you’ve worked for will go up in smoke. And besides that? I figure you’re probably a good man, Nick. Not the kind to blackmail sweet innocent omegas into contracts.”  
   
Fury’s eyes track to a point beyond Tony’s head. He sighs, heavily, and sits up. “Okay,” he says. “No contract.”  
   
“No contract,” Tony agrees.  
   
“We’ve thrown omegas in his path,” Fury tells him bluntly. “Young, fertile, submissive, authoritative, male- and female-presenting. Nothing’s stuck. He takes a few of them home, goes through some vanilla motions. My agents say he leaves generally unsatisfied but, by all accounts, is a particularly attentive lover.”  
   
“I was aware.”  
   
“So bear with me, for a moment. We have an alpha: volatile, mentally unstable _without_ the added breed trauma. He’s a walking case of PTSD, and is more janky that an alpha in rut on a good day. We’ve practically served him omegas on a silver platter, and he’s tried them then sent them back, no compliments to the chef. And yet,” Fury pauses, “for some reason, _you_ ignite his passions. You. A forty-something omega, old, barren, pretty and well-bred, sure, but there are many, _many_ other pretty and well-bred omegas in New York. What am I supposed to think, Tony?”  
   
“That I’m worth it.”  
   
“Maybe. I spoke to doctors,” he says casually, “they think it might have something to do with your scent, even if it’s just a small factor. Maybe, you smell like Howard. That reminds his hind-brain of home, in some tenuous way.”  
   
Tony doesn’t want to think about that. “Maybe.”  
   
“You know what I think, Stark?”  
   
Tony sighs. “You’re going to tell me anyway.” It’s a common theme.  
   
“I think, you have him eating out of the palm of your hand, and he doesn’t even know it.”  
   
Tony thinks long and hard about what to say next. “If he realised, I would lose half my power.”  
   
Fury’s smile is just a touch triumphant. “You can control him.”  
   
“Within limits. I can – push him,” Tony admits, reluctantly. “Probably. So long as he feels he’s in control.”  
   
“Like in the stairwell.”  
   
“Yes, Fury. Like in the stairwell, footage I am absolutely _thrilled_ you have clearly watched and viewed multiple times.”  
   
“So push him,” Fury says simply. “Steer him.”  
   
Tony laughs. “You’re asking me to rent myself out and take a lot, at significant personal expense. You’re going to have to give me something in return.”  
   
“Is having the world’s most powerful alpha under your thumb not enough?”  
   
“No.”  
   
Fury smirks. “You always were an ambitious little bitch,” he says, with a trace of admiration. “Let me tell you what I see – I’ve looked over your records, Stark, intimately. I know you’ve had six contracts over your life, the first when you were just fifteen. Can you even remember the person you were then? Little innocent Stark, all wide eyes, long-limbs, like a baby doe?”  
   
“I try to forget.”  
   
“I remember. Lots of us remember. Your father, he gave you to – “  
   
“Mr Cain. You don’t need to tell me my own history,” Tony says shortly. He carefully – carefully – schools his fingers not to twitch against the armrest. Any tell is an indication of submission, it always is with men like Fury.  
   
“What carrot did Howard dangle in front of you to get you to agree to that?”  
   
“College.”  
   
“And after. Mr Chang, and then Mrs Hamilton. Mr Hosseini. That couple – the Takami’s. And Mr Martin. What did they give you, in return for your services?”  
   
There’s only one thing Tony ever needs: protection. Protection comes from information, and power. He checks them off in his head: _Blackmail. Intel. Connections. Appearances. Bribery._ All compelling reasons, in their own right, with one main goal.  
   
“Do not tell me,” Fury continues, pressing, “that having the Captain at your back isn’t its own reward. You know that it is.”  
   
Tony thinks of all the things he could have, with an alpha like Steve to clear the way.  
   
“You’ve clearly already had these thoughts,” Fury shrugs, “you’re half-way there. You’ve almost made him yours. Now, put that influence to good use. It’s all I’m asking.”  
   
“What makes you think I’ll have him do _your_ bidding?” Tony asks. “I could turn him against you if I wanted,” he adds casually, because it’s true. “So long as he gets to live out his traditional impulses – it’s all superficial. He’ll do what I say.”  
   
“I’m aware. I’m thinking, we might have a common goal.”  
   
“Oh really?”  
   
“Rogers is a good fighter. To be frank, he’s wasted as an Avenger.”  
   
Tony takes that in his stride. “Thanks, Fury.”  
   
“I want him on SHIELD payroll. He’ll be given top clearance, he won’t even need to attend basic. He’ll be running an elite team, working regular, keeping busy, helping people. It’s what he needs. It’s what we need.”  
   
“So ask him yourself.”  
   
“He doesn’t trust me,” Fury says bluntly, “not after the weapons, or New York. And he mistrusts SHIELD to a fault.”  
   
“Rightly, in my opinion. You’re fucking shady, Nick.”  
   
“You’ll convince him, or at the very least, sow the seeds,” Fury says calmly.  
   
“And in return?”  
   
He picks up a file from his desk, slides it across the table. “I stop this from moving any further.”  
   
Tony frowns, leafs through the pages. It’s all _contractual obligations_ and _mental stability_ and _greater good._ “Why is there a copy of my psych report?”  
   
“Some people think you’re a loose cannon. They’d like to see you aimed in the right direction.”  
   
“That doesn’t mean anything, speak like a normal person.”  
   
“Your temperamental behaviour hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Fury supplements. “There’s a sizeable minority who think you’d do better on consultant basis.”  
   
“I thought we were done with that?”  
   
“Let me finish. On a consultant basis _or_ contracted to someone inside SHIELD.”  
   
Tony stares. “I’ll need a copy of this.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Nick, I’m just going to steal it otherwise. Let me make a copy.”  
   
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”  
   
“Who are the ‘sizeable minority’? Whose desk are you going to stop that report from landing on?”  
   
“That’s for me to know. You’re just a working piece, Tony. Do this for me, and I’ll make sure this file meets the shredder.”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “No.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No,” he says simply. “Because you’re not going to let them corner me.”  
   
“You have a heightened self-worth, Stark,” Fury scoffs.  
   
“I don’t. I just know that you’re not going to let a few puritans undermine your initiative to spite me.”  
   
Fury’s lips twitch upwards. “Fine,” he says, kicking the shredder underneath his desk, depositing the file. “You got me. I bat for you. But can I show you something spooky?”  
   
“Spooky?” Tony asks, eyebrow arched.  
   
“This landed on my desk this morning from R&D. You know something weird? I couldn’t find any record of it on our servers. So top secret it didn’t even exist.”  
   
He deposits a plastic baggy with a small metal tube on top of the desk. Tony frowns. “Can I touch it?”  
   
“Sure,” Fury encourages. “Open it up. Tell me what you think.”  
   
Tony eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?” He asks, picking it out of the packaging, sniffing at the lid. “I don’t need to eat it, do I?”  
   
“Your scientific method is infallible,” Fury dead-pans. “Take a look.”  
   
Tony moves to uncap it, then stops. “Why?” He asks, slowly. “Is it going to shock me?”  
   
“It won’t kill you,” Fury admits, “I know that much.”  
   
“That secret, huh?”  
   
“R&D weren’t banking on me having a willing test-subject.”  
   
Tony’s an idiot, probably, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Something so secret even Nick Fury couldn’t tell him what it is. “Biological weapon?” Tony asks, popping the cap.  
   
It’s a small metal roller-ball, the kind you would get on the cheap lip-gloss that came with the teen magazines Tony read as a kid. He scents it, delicately, once. “Oh,” he says.  
   
“What does it smell like?”  
   
“You can’t – “ Tony is distracted, “you can’t smell that?”  
   
“Nothing at all,” Fury says, and he sounds – angry, for some reason. “I did the exact same thing you did, but got nothing.”  
   
Tony brings it closer to his nostrils and inhales. “Huh,” he says, blood thumping in his ears. “That’s – what, some kind of perfume…”  
   
He scents it again, as deep as he can. Pulses of colour in his peripheral vision. “What does it smell like?” Fury urges.  
   
“It’s… my dad’s cologne,” Tony frowns. His nose wrinkles. Everything is sharp, suddenly, even the memory that comes creeping into his mind, unbidden.  
   
“And how do you feel?”  
   
Good. Relaxed. The way you do when you know you’re safe, and protected, guard let down. The way he felt when he was a kid, and sick, and safe in his dad’s arms. But he has enough wherewithal to remember, this is a drug, and he’s in a meeting. And he needs to stay sharp.  
   
It’s unsettling, deeply unsettling. He’s dozy, and blinking, and slightly turned on, but he doesn’t want to press the idea of _why._ “Uh,” he says, “I’m – I feel good, I guess. Maybe a little dizzy, I don’t know.”  
   
“That’s enough of that, then,” Fury says, snapping the tube out of his hand, quickly depositing it back in the baggy like it’s radioactive.  
   
“I don’t understand,” Tony hears himself say, voice slow, even. He rubs at his nose. “What was that?”  
   
He kinda wants to smell it again. Almost. Just once, maybe.  
   
“I imagine it’s been designed to – get people like you to let your guard down,” Fury says, pointedly.  
   
That’s not new. There are loads of drugs like that, Tony’s been on the receiving end both willingly and unwillingly a few times.  
   
“No,” Fury corrects, “this is the real deal, right? You tell me – is there a difference between what you just saw, and those cheap benzos you get on the street? Or even the more sophisticated shit, the kind of thing that puts you in a heat.”  
   
“There’s a difference,” Tony tells him, and – if he hadn’t been aware of it – he wouldn’t have even noticed how willingly he responded to Fury’s question, easily, his brain _making_ him respond. “That’s like – I don’t know. I think it just takes whatever scent I want to… that makes me feel safe,” he finishes, slowly.  
   
“Alright,” Fury pushes, “and, in your expert opinion, how could someone use this? What could they gain from using this on someone? On you, for instance?”  
   
Tony looks up, adrenalin spiking. “Fuck.”  
   
“You should follow the thought through.”  
   
“Trust,” he says, “Interrogation.” There’s a sick feeling sliding through his stomach. “If someone wore this, and I was… maybe already not in my right mind…”  
   
“A wide range of uses,” Fury agrees. “Stark, there are some things I can’t shield against, as much as I try. Someone in SHIELD had this developed, and I can’t say why, but the fact that in the space of week I get recommendations to get you under control? And _this_ left on my desk?”  
   
“Find out who.”  
   
Fury leans forward. “I _swear_ to you, I will try. In return – I just need a little help with the Captain. Don’t you think, now of all times, having someone like him to guard your back is one of the best things?”  
   
Steve is establishment, and alpha. When Tony wears his scent, no one even dares look his way.  
   
“Okay,” he agrees, slowly. “Fine. Deal.”  
   
“Deal,” Fury nods, even though he doesn’t seem happy about it.  
   
“Is that all?”  
   
“I’d like to see results by the end of the week. Tell Rogers I have a job for him. Tell him why he should accept.”  
   
Tony mock salutes. “Duly noted,” he says, standing.  
   
“And Tony?”  
   
“Yes, dearest?”  
   
“Just, uh.” He picks up the baggie, tucks it into his sleeve. “Just look out for yourself, alright? Stay on your toes.”  
   
Tony thinks, _you like me really, you big mean bastard._ “Also noted,” he says, voice softer. “Look after yourself, Nick.”  
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow my [tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/) for updates on various life things. there's more plot than i thought i guess, but i would like to hear what you think about it so far and where you see this story going!


	9. talk

Some things need a slighter hand.  
   
Tony pulls at his tie, watches the screen that shows him the elevator rising to the penthouse. He has a migraine building at the back of his head, although he can’t tell if it’s from the talk with Fury, the thought of having to wrangle Steve – a person he somewhat respects and, dare he say, _likes –_ into something potentially life-endangering, or the strange little vial that Fury keeps up his sleeve.  
   
He knows Steve will be in the lounge, pencil in hand, sketching people and patterns into the new book Tony bought him on his business trip in Japan, the one with the absurd GSM and cream-laden pages. It’s a Friday evening; this is where Steve always is. Other alpha Steve’s age – they might go to bars, or clubs, or stay in watching TV with their sweetheart.  
   
Steve chooses to draw with a borderline-alcoholic omega, older than him by a decade, who’ll make his way through a bottle of wine and a half before the evening is through. It occurs to Tony that it’s quite sad; Steve is supposed to be at his peak of youth. And he’s spending it with Tony because… what? Fear of the unknown? Because he’s the kind to settle for the first thing to come along? Or maybe, just maybe, out of genuine affection?  
   
“I talked to Fury today,” Tony starts, not bothering to check if Steve is listening; he will be. Rolling up his sleeves, he pours out two fingers of scotch into separate glasses, carries it down to the couches.  
   
“Oh yeah?” Steve asks. He’s distracted, pencil scratching over the page.  
   
Tony holds out the drink. “He asked about our little incident in the stairwell.”  
   
“And what did you tell him?” Steve takes the glass, sips, winces.  
   
“That it was perfectly safe, sane, and consensual.”  
   
“I didn’t realise Fury was looking out for you in that way,” Steve says, but he sounds slightly… approving?  
   
“Looks like it. He’s part of the old guard,” Tony tells him, truthfully. “Him, Pierce, your Peggy. I guess he thinks he owes me something. My dad something,” he corrects.  
   
Holding out the bait. Steve snatches. “Sit with me,” he says, like it’s his decision. He clears off his sketchbook, a couple of pillows, pats the couch. “I was wondering about that, what happened, the other day. In the stairwell,” he clarifies, as if it needed to be clarified.  
   
“I bet you’ve been thinking about it,” Tony mutters, only half-lascivious, down his glass in one. He wishes he’d brought a bottle of wine along with him.  
   
“Right. Yes.” Steve clears his throat. “I was thinking – or I wasn’t, thinking, actually. I can get – carried away, with myself. In the moment. Things get very…”  
   
“Immanent,”  
   
“Immanent,” Steve agrees, but his throat is croaky. He’s upset, Tony realises. “It’s like sometimes, I don’t know… I can see the line, and I know I shouldn’t cross the line, then one thing leads to another and – “  
   
“The line is in your rearview.”  
   
“Exactly.”  
   
“You find it hard to control yourself sometimes, Steve?”  
   
He nods. “I don’t know why,” he says, shortly.  
   
“Well, there was no harm done. This time,” Tony adds. “So don’t beat yourself up about it.” This is exactly what Fury was talking about; all that energy in an alpha like Steve – it’s one thing, if it comes out in sex. It’s another if it gets violent. Like the man at the gala almost found out. Like Ty discovered.  
   
“But it’s more than that, I think,” Steve says delicately. “I was reading your file.”  
   
God fucking damn it. “Do people just – peruse my personal history at their leisure?! Fucking hell, are they selling copies of it in Barnes and Noble?!”  
   
“Fury sent it through, after. I didn’t even think why, but maybe he was trying to – I don’t know, it just landed on my desk. But why would he do that if he didn’t want me to read it?”  
   
Maybe Nick has Tony’s back more than Tony realised in the first place. Or, he’s being a manipulative bastard. He _knows_ what’s in that file. He _knows_ Tony doesn’t like his history spread all around the place.  
   
“He probably just wanted to make sure you were aware of – Christ, of my issues, maybe. In case it wasn’t safe and sane, okay? It’s probably in the fucking HR policy, God knows how many alphas they must get rutting at the six or seven omegas they actually employ to do fieldwork – “  
   
“Was he right to?”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“Was he… right,” Steve asks carefully. “To show me your file, and your history. I mean – what I’m trying to say, I guess,” his eyes are shifty, looking carefully at the fibre of the couch cushions, “is that maybe there are things in there that, uh – elucidate? Or explain? Or maybe even – give me reason to think – “  
   
“I’m not talking about it,” Tony says, bluntly. He’s not fucking joking. “I appreciate what he was trying to do, but I don’t need to be told that – do you know how frustrating it is to be told your choices aren’t your choices and every action is the result of some kind of deep-seated trauma? Like, yeah, no shit, _every_ choice _any_ person makes is the result of life events, but for some reason, no one’s trying to take away _your_ agency, and it only really becomes relevant whenever I do something that goes against the fucking grain,” he spits, maybe more angry than he was aware.  
   
“It’s not about your choices,” Steve frowns. “I’m not talking about _your_ choices. Fury – he’s clearly trying to tell me to back off, because he thinks you act impulsively and do things you regret, but I think – Tony, I think I act impulsively. And I do things I regret.”  
   
Jesus. “Steve, I _enjoyed_ it. Understand? I enjoyed you, putting me on my knees, in a public stairwell.” It doesn’t even feel humiliating to admit it, he’s just so confused at the turn the conversation is taking. “That’s something I like. I – enthusiastically encourage you to do it – well, not again so soon, because that would be weird but hell, sure, do it again! Whenever you want! I’m a slut, honey, I can take it all.”  
   
Steve isn’t smiling. “The report,” he says, “about the omegas, the ones that were hurt.” Is going to say it? Say the word? “The ones who were raped.”  
   
No one ever uses that word, Tony thinks mildly. They probably should, because then he could get used it, and he wouldn’t get that awful buzzing in his ears when it’s brought up. “What about it?” He asks, mildly.  
   
“I just thought – those things in your file – “  
   
“Forget my file.”  
   
“And I couldn’t help thinking, what if maybe – you weren’t paying attention, sure, and don’t get me wrong, I love the – the roleplay, I guess, as much as anyone, but what if you were tuning out – “  
   
“I wasn’t tuning out anything,” Tony says heavily. “I was bored. Not bored, just – I wasn’t giving it my full attention, okay? And it has nothing to with anything that’s in my file, and I liked what happened afterwards, I give my full consent for you to spring all kinds of dirty shit on me whenever you like, and let’s leave it at that, okay?”  
   
Steve is chewing his bottom lip, which would be sweet under other circumstances. “There were things in there,” he says, “about after you first – “  
   
“Enough.”  
   
“Alright,” Steve backs off, gives in easily. “I’ve just been doing a lot of reflection, is all. I’m glad to hear that you like it. Or that you liked it. That – it’s as good for you as it is for me.”  
   
Which as good a segway as any. “You often feel like – like you have emotions you can’t control, Steve?” He pulls up his knees, tucks himself against the couch, head bent slightly to the side to bear his neck.  
   
Steve swallows. “Sometimes,” he admits.  
   
“Like when? Like what?”  
   
Steve is stiff. He isn’t looking at Tony, won’t even turn his head. “It doesn’t interfere with my work,” he tells him, like that’s the most important thing.  
   
Tony lays a hand on his knee. “Steve,” he says, hearing that his voice is soft, hating himself for doing this, because he knows the effect it will have, “I don’t care about your job. I care about you.”  
   
Steve narrows his eyes. “Fury talked about me,” he says, because he isn’t stupid. “He thinks what happened in the stairwell was a loss of control.”  
   
“He does,” Tony confirms, careful not to give his mission away. “But I’m not Fury, and I’ve told you I’m fine with what happened. I care more about – the other things.”  
   
“The other things.”  
   
Tony pulls himself forward, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Steve’s. He can feel him go clammy, unused to touch, not quite sure how to reciprocate. “You killed my ex-boyfriend,” he reminds, gently.  
   
“Didn’t kill.”  
   
“Might as well have, for the all damage you did. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, just that one day – what if you get it wrong? And what if you act too quickly, your head gets filled with all that… fight? What would happen then, Steve?”  
   
“But I don’t know how to fix it,” he says, and his voice is so quiet, almost a whisper. Tony has the awful, sinking feeling, that he’s trying to mask a croak. “I never used to be like this, Tony.”  
   
 _Tony._ The name sounds strange on his lips, like his mouth isn’t used to making the word, foreign to Tony’s ears. Not Stark, or omega, or bitch, or anything else. “Like what?” He asks, gently.  
   
“Rabid. Hard, maybe. I never used to look for the worst in people, always, but this new world is difficult. People don’t say what they mean, and when they do, it’s rarely kind. I want – all I need is home, you know? If I just had somewhere…”  
   
 _Someone,_ goes unsaid. Tony swallows. He’s stroking Steve skin without really thinking about it, mindless comfort. “When you met me,” he says, “what did you think?”  
   
“I thought you were – pretty.”  
   
Tony laughs. “Just pretty?”  
   
“I don’t know. You were one of the first omegas I’d spoken to since – before. And you were reassuring, I think, in your own weird way. You didn’t listen to instructions, and I liked that, even when it made me mad. You’re like the others,” he seems to realise, “at camp, at parties. You know what you want, and how to get it, and you’re not – docile. Bred to be docile, I mean.”  
   
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Tony smiles, softly. “I was sure bred to be something. Do I remind you of home, Steve? Is that what it is?” He sees the tight, awkward look on his face. “No no,” he soothes, “don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s fine if I do, it’s normal. You remind me of – we all have types.”  
   
“Relationships built on the ghosts of other people don’t tend to have a long life, Tony.”  
   
He frowns. “Well, that depends,” he answers. “Do we have a relationship?”  
   
Steve turns his chin. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly.  
   
Their faces are close, their noses almost touch. “Uh,” Tony says, distracted briefly. “Here’s a thing,” he admits, aware that it’s been playing on his mind since Fury mentioned it, “I don’t – remind you of my dad at all, do I?”  
   
Steve frowns, lightly. “Sure,” he says, “maybe. You have his colouring, and he was pretty sharp, too. Why?”  
   
“I mean – the scent of me,” Tony corrects, awkwardly. “It isn’t – I know I remind you of home because I’m old-school, right, but it’s not because… I don’t remind you of...”  
   
“Oh no, God no.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “No, that’s not it. No way.”  
   
“That’s a relief, I guess.”  
   
“Is it? That really bothered you, huh?”  
   
“No one wants to be fucked because you remind someone of your dad.”  
   
Steve laughs, and his scent mellows, goes nice and dozy. _He’s relaxing,_ Tony thinks, with an omegan sense of smug satisfaction. See how good he is for his alpha? The best. “You said, before – something about me reminding you of someone? You stopped yourself.”  
   
Tony smiles, traces his finger up and down Steve’s forearm. “Hah. Because I realised, actually, you don’t remind me of anyone. You’re not really the type of guy I go for.”  
   
“Can I ask what your type is?”  
   
“Aww, Steve. You read my file.”  
   
Steve looks at him, more serious. “But that’s not your type,” he says, “is it? I thought you just – that was a power thing, an influence thing.”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Are you asking, do I really enjoy fucking old alphas? Because the answer is, I kinda do. I was bred for it, Steve, it’s in my blood.”  
   
“No, it’s not,” Steve presses, voice now slightly challenging. Who’s being interrogated here, him or Steve?! “It says in your file, you were fifteen the first time. I was reading all this stuff about imprinting, and cultural control – “  
   
“I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about _your_ problems.”  
   
“I know it’s different for rich people. I mean – for people with money, and lineage, and empires. Tale as old as time. I know some people say, it’s kinder to bond you as soon as you have your first heat, but fifteen was young even by standards in my day – “  
   
“Not if you have money,” Tony snorts.  
   
“Hell, eighteen, twenty – sure, go ahead. But _fifteen?_ Weren’t you at school? Didn’t you… I don’t know, what the fuck kids that age do. Play ball, and listen to records, and – “  
   
“I graduated early, and I didn’t really have friends. Steve, you’re overthinking it,” Tony soothes. “Maybe this is what we’re talking about, right? You’re getting your head into the wrong place again. Relax. I’m here for you, not the other way around.”  
   
Steve’s eyes look sad. “You really can’t see why I’m upset, huh?”  
   
Tony splutters. “I – “ he pulls back “sure, Steve. I’d be upset if I found out my omega liked getting railed by old – “  
   
“No, Tony,” Steve says, frustrated and showing it, “it’s not about who you want to – it’s not about who, it’s about why, and it’s the fact that after what I read I don’t know if you’ve ever been as in control as you say you are.”  
   
Tony feels his eye twitch. “Well why bring it up then, Steve,” he hears himself saying. “What’s the point? To make me feel like shit? To make me feel like a slut, or a dumb bitch who just gets _used_ by other people? Is that it?”  
   
“No. You know that’s not what I mean, Stark. I think you use your body to get what you want, and that’s fine, and I don’t care, but sometimes I think – you delude yourself,” he says, shortly.  
   
“Delude myself,” Tony repeats, shortly.  
   
“That wasn’t what I meant.”  
   
“Like an idiot. I _delude_ myself.” Stick to the plan, Stark – _just be nice, Tony, turn on that sweet charm, I know you have it. That’s it, just like that. Smile like that, and they’ll eat out of your palm._  
   
Steve seems to realise he’s chosen his path and now he’ll need to follow it through. “I just mean, that a lot of the things you talk about are objectively wrong, yet when you talk about them, you make them sound subjectively right.”  
   
“Fuck off,” Tony hears himself saying. “Just – fuck off, Rogers. Who are you? Who the fuck are you to – you shouldn’t have even looked, you read a couple pages about me and think you know anything? That you’re a fucking authority, that you can psycho-analyse me? Fuck _off.”_  
   
“Tony I didn’t mean – “  
   
“I mean,” he snorts, hearing himself grow cruel, _“you._ Psycho-analysing _me._ As if I’m the problem here, as if this isn’t all for you, and because you. Fucking hell. Fucking _hell,_ Rogers.”  
   
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I mean. I used the wrong word – “  
   
“It’s fine. It’s so fine, it’s totally fine, actually,” Tony smiles, sickly sweet. “We were having a good night, weren’t we? I thought maybe we’d put on some Netflix, open a bottle of wine, you’d fuck me nice and slow and then we’d go to bed happy, but – shit, I don’t know, Steve. Maybe I was deluding myself, huh?”  
   
He sees Steve shut his eyes, which means he’s won. “Fuck you,” he says again, hating himself. “Fuck you,” he says, because he knows what Steve said was true.  
   
   
He wakes up thirsty, desperately. His throat feels too tight, and his dreams were visceral, and he only allows himself a few moments to let the relief of reality tide him through to the now before carefully pulling back the covers, swinging his feet onto the carpet.  
   
He’s wearing Steve’s sweatshirt, because he had been cold, but now he’s too warm, choking on it. Still, the scent of him is comforting, to be pulled up over his nose, rocked into while he shuts his eyes and counts down from ten.  
   
And again. And again.  
   
He drinks from the bathroom tap like a dog and splashes cool water on his face. Dries it with a towel. It’s still too warm.  
   
It’s been a long day.  
   
Briefly, Tony entertains the thought walking to Steve’s room, crawling beneath the covers of Steve’s bed, wrapping his arms around his waist, letting their legs intertangle, head pushed into the crook of his shoulder. But the thought of clammy skin and touch, and fingers digging into his flesh is just too much to bear, so he picks up a pack of malboro from the bedside table and takes it out on the balcony.  
   
It’s cold, and Tony is near enough naked. Cold enough that his breath fogs and he shivers, teeth rattling inside his skull. It’s good, though, because this way he can pretend it’s not because he’s dreamt awful dreams. The city is so bright. It makes his eyes ache.  
   
 _I need a fucking Xanax,_ he thinks drowsily, exhaling smoke. He rests a shaky hand against his brow, and the heat inside him finally starts to dissipate. He did a bad thing, tonight. He shouldn’t have let on. He should have controlled himself.  
   
He drags in again, and this time the smoke doesn’t feel liberating; the nicotine feels like the tar it is, clogging his lungs, and the stink in his nose reminds him of ash in his hair and burns on his thighs. He stubs it out on the balcony rail then flicks it off into the sky, watches it tumble, disappear into the clouds and cars way below.  
   
 _Stop it,_ he tells himself, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, _stop it, you’re being a baby. Stop it. Don’t you dare._  
  
It just makes colours spark behind his lids, the dark making way to more visceral twists of vision, greasy, uneasy tableaus that reek so sharply of distress and fear that he wants to gag. He wants to pull away, too; he wants to stop himself from indulging it, these awful fucking self-destructive desires to watch those parts of his history, third-person, the way he’s memorised and envisioned all these years.  
   
Cologne, and cigarette smoke. Scotch. His favourite things, all indelibly fucking marked, scarred onto him. He doesn’t have options, not about anything; everything he is he was made, and not by choice, by someone else selling him there, or touching him here, or marking him in such a way that nothing, not once thing, will ever be as pure or as true as the Tony who probably died in an old man’s bed when he was fifteen –  
   
“Jarvis said,” Steve is saying softly, hair sleep-mussed, wrapped in a robe. “It’s cold, Tony. What are you doing out here?”  
   
“Smoking,” Tony says, and the realises he’s not holding a cigarette. “Just getting some air,” he corrects.  
   
“It’s 3AM.”  
   
“Didn’t feel well.”  
   
A beat. “Are you going to come back inside?” And then, “I don’t want to leave you out here. It’s dark.”  
   
It’s never dark in New York. “I’m coming,” Tony lies, and shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. The thought of being touched repulses him.  
   
Steve hovers. “Are you okay?” He asks eventually.  
   
“No,” Tony says, honestly. “Shut the door on your way in. Jarvis won’t lock me out.”  
   
 “I – here,” Steve murmurs, pulling off his robe. “Just for my peace of mind,” he tells him, draping it across Tony’s shoulders. His knuckles brush against his skin, and he hides his shudder. Still, the robe is unbearably warm and comfy; it smells like Steve, and for all his repulsion to touch, the scent of alpha, friendly, well-worn and trustworthy, is a comfort.  
   
“Thanks,” he says, but his throat is thick. “Don’t wait up.”  
   
Steve isn’t leaving. And the weight of him at his back is depressingly comforting. _I hate you all,_ Tony thinks, ugly. He hates every alpha that ever lived, hates his fucking place, hates his dependence.  
   
He picks up the pack, draws out another cigarette, and decides to torture himself some more if only to avoid talking. It takes him a while to catch the tip with the lighter, hands shaking. The smoke takes him to another place. And that vacant empty feeling he felt after, like he’d been gouged, mingles with the scent of his father’s study, his old cigars. He had been safe. It had felt safe.  
   
“Nick wants you in DC,” Tony says, shortly, tired of the games. “You’d be heading up a team. It would be regular work. I think you should go.”  
   
“You’re not in DC.”  
   
Tony shrugs. “We’re not dating, Steve.”  
   
“Why should I do it?”  
   
“Because it will be good for you,” Tony says bluntly. “Because it means you’ll stop hanging around here. You’ll be able to mix with other alpha, get out some of that energy, do productive work.”  
   
“Are those your words, of Fury’s?”  
   
“His,” Tony exhales, eyes closing, chin tipped up.  “But I agree,” he says, honestly. “You need work.”  
   
“Okay,” he says, simply. “If you say so. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”  
   
Such trust. Nick will be so happy with his latest acquisition. “Great,” Tony tells him, shortly. He takes another drag, flicks ash into the sky.  
   
“About earlier,” Steve says.  
   
“It’s fine.”  
   
“You’re not deluded. I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”  
   
“Sure,” Tony agrees.  
   
“Come to bed,” Steve says, warm against his back. His mouth is close to Tony’s ear. He doesn’t even flinch.  
   
“Come to bed,” Steve says again, and his hands wrap around his waist. It’s safe. It’s more safe than Tony has ever felt. He hates it. “I want to see your face when I wake up,” he whispers, kissing along Tony’s throat.  
   
He acquiesces, bends his neck to the side to allow Steve access. “Do you want to fuck me?” He asks, exhaling sharply, smoke blowing back into his eyes.  
   
“No,” Steve murmurs, “I just want you.”  
   
Tony doesn’t respond. He inhales.  
   
“Do you want to?” Steve asks, pulling back. “I understand. It’s okay to want your own space.”  
   
He hates him for being so good. Understanding, and pure. He genuinely wants the best for me, Tony thinks. He wants me to be comfortable. He doesn’t want to _force_ me.  
   
It would be so stupid to let this go. Protection is everything.  
   
“I want to,” Tony says, leaning back into his arms. He twists his neck, kisses Steve’s chin. “I’m sorry I was angry earlier. I don’t like people looking at my history.”  
   
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Steve says against his skin. “I’ll stop talking about it, all of it. We don’t need to define what we are if you don’t want to.”  
   
“Fine,” Tony says, making sure his voice is sweet and soft in the way Steve will say he doesn’t like, but will love when he thinks it’s been offered up genuinely. “C’mon. Don’t steal all of my side of the blanket.”  
   
It is better, being in Steve’s arms. It’s never bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so I know if the things I'm writing are coming across the way I want them to -- what do people think is in Tony's file that he's trying to keep secret? 
> 
> Bc I know what I want it to be, honestly, I just wonder if people have picked up on the right thing, you know? This has turned 128% more plot than i thought it would be when i started.
> 
> Comments are loved etc. 
> 
> follow my [tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/) for updates on various life things


	10. strike

Tony thinks, it’s probably important to Steve.  
   
He’s been working with SHIELD for some three months; as expected, it’s been better for him. He spends most of his time in New York, averages one mission a week – plenty of space to get out that energy, lead a team the way he’s bred to do, and still have time for Tony in-between.  
   
A lot of time for Tony, in fact. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t overthink it. He just knows this: Steve would not have asked him here, tonight, unless it was important to him. Gala, the President is here, Fury is here, Alexander Pierce is here, and Steve is the man of the hour.  
   
They get ready separately, in their individual hotel rooms. Steve meets him at the bottom of the wide stairs, smiles, holds out his arm. “You look good,” he says.  
   
“I always look good. Tux suits you, who chose it?”  
   
“Funny. Where would I be without your sage advice, huh?”  
   
“Cap, Cap!” A man with a shark teeth smile and greasy, slicked-back hair flags them down.  
   
“Rumlow,” Steve greets, letting the man shake his hand, clap him on the back. “Where’s your date?”  
   
“Bailed. Not like yours, huh?” Rumlow turns to him, smiles in a way he probably thinks is charming: Tony hates him on sight. “It’s good to meet you, From Stark. I work with Rogers, for my sins.”  
   
Tony leans back into fifteen years of deportment lessons. “A pleasure,” he says, letting him kiss his hand. “So long as you take care of him.”  
   
“I can try,” he laughs. “Cap – I don’t want to be that guy, but the president has asked to see you, you probably want to knock him off first. But don’t you worry, From Stark,” and Rumlow turns that grating smile back at Tony, “I have someone more important for you to see.”  
   
“Pierce is here already?” Steve asks distractedly, searching the crowd. “I’ll go find out what our fearless leader needs. Tony, I’ll – meet you there,” he says, absently patting his arm.  
   
“I’m told you and Pierce go miles back,” Rumlow says, feeding his arm through Tony’s. He tolerates it if only for the sake of appearances; Rumlow’s grip feels insidious.  
   
“Not really,” he shrugs. “I barely knew him. He was a friend of my father’s, obviously.”  
   
Rumlow’s voice is tight. “Obviously,” he says, with just a hint of mockery. “I forget that SHIELD’s a small world. You would know though, right? Your dad started the damn thing.”  
   
“He never mentioned it,” Tony says coldly.  
   
“You know, From Stark, you’re not very friendly.”  
   
 _Rude._ “Sorry. I don’t know you very well.”  
   
“Yeah, well your Captain does. He trusts me.”  
   
“I’m smarter than him.”  
   
Rumlow’s grip tightens. “You sure are full of yourself, From Stark.”  
   
“I’m rich, I’m pretty, I’m clever. You could work all your life and not achieve a fraction of what I’m worth. I think I’ve earned it.”  
   
Rumlow stops in front of a door, releases him. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes cold, face – hard. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this level of animosity.”  
   
“Don’t touch me. That’s not your right.”  
   
“I’m just being friendly, From Stark.”  
   
“Like fuck. No tuxedo – you weren’t invited, were you? You’re here to help, like a fucking guard-dog.”  
   
Rumlow works his jaw. He’s big – bigger than Steve, in a way, even though Steve would be stronger. “You sure are a little bitch, huh?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Rumlow leans forward. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” he mutters, lip twitching. “I bet we’d see just what kind of bitch you are if the Captain wasn’t there to protect you.”  
   
“You shouldn’t threaten me, Rumlow,” Tony smiles, knocking twice on the door. “Steve doesn’t like it. It raises his blood pressure.”  
   
“Come in,” the person behind the door calls out. “From Stark,” Alexander Pierce is saying, taking his hand to kiss his knuckles. “My God. Haven’t you just grown?”  
   
Tony indulges it, because Pierce is an old man. “Please, remind me,” he laughs, accepting a champagne flute.  
   
“You were a child the last time I saw you face to face. I should have made time, before,” he says, regretfully, “but you understand, I’m not really supposed to get involved with the day to day…“  
   
Tony waves a hand. “It’s fine, isn’t it? I seem to do okay.”  
   
Pierce smiles at him. “You do,” he agrees, nodding. “You certainly do. Here – sit, please. Can I get you anything else?”  
   
“No, I’m – “ Tony laughs. He hadn’t realised this meeting would be so – intimate. “Are we waiting for other guests?”  
   
“There will be. I suppose I wanted to check in, now that we’re reacquainted.” Pierce fishes out a pack of cigarettes, holds it out. “You smoke?”  
   
“Not when the Captain’s around,” Tony says, honestly. “He thinks it’s bad for me.”  
   
“He’s right,” Pierce observes, lighting up. “Nasty habit, From Stark, and the world could do with having you with us as long as we can.”  
   
“You flatter me.”  
   
“Yeah,” Pierce says, and then he half grins. “I am trying to. Can you guess why?”  
   
Tony’s already done the math. “Steve,” he says, reluctantly.  
   
“I should thank you,” Pierce nods, exhaling, flicking ash into a tray. “I’m not sure Fury ever could have convinced him. And it’s not like Rumlow’s a prize in himself,” he snorts.  
   
“I didn’t convince him. I told him the truth, it’s a good idea. Better for him,” he clarifies.  
   
“Of course.” Pierce watches him carefully, maybe, or maybe just pausing for thought. “You want the best for him.”  
   
“He’s a good man.”  
   
“He is,” Pierce agrees. He blows smoke. Tony’s nose twitches; maybe it’s the study, or the cigarettes, or the slight hint of scotch on Pierce’s breath that sets him on edge. “What do you think of him, From Stark?”  
   
“Tony,” he insists, “and – what is this, on the record or off? Am I being interrogated?”  
   
Pierce laughs. “No. I… I’m immensely grateful to the Captain,” he says, honestly. “I suppose – I would be lying, if I said I didn’t worry. About him, about his mental…”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Sorry. I mean – yes. I can see why you might worry, or – I can see why.”  
   
Pierce clears his throat, lowers his voice. Leans closer. “The incident with Stone,” he murmurs.  
   
“Had nothing to do with me.”  
   
Pierce wrinkles his nose. “Oh, Tony. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have blamed you, knowing what I know. It’s not the impulse that concerns me, it’s the fact he… it was a particularly bad business. A _particularly_ bad business.”  
   
“I don’t know, I hear he’s taking his meals through a straw now, which is progress.”  
   
Pierce hides a smile. “Be that as it may,” he says, “the fact that your Captain made the call so smoothly doesn’t bode well for his decision-making capabilities. I hear there was another incident some months back, at some party. He put a man on his knees?”  
   
Tony thinks. “Oh,” he remembers, “no, that was just – I mean, sure, maybe he went too far. But he only wanted him to pay me reparation.”  
   
“There’s a common theme, then”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
Pierce flicks ash. “I mean,” he continues, “it seems like the Captain is spurred to action by one, very particular, trigger.”  
   
“Which is?”  
   
Pierce looks at him, strangely. “You,” he says, voice soft, confused, like he doesn’t understand how Tony didn’t reach that conclusion.  
   
“Not – I mean, sure. So long as I’m his – sorry, but let’s just say, I’m his go to guy, right? I won’t be, always. He’s just – dominant,” Tony dismisses. “It’s not me in particular.”  
   
Pierce raises an eyebrow. “If you insist,” he says, in a way that means he’s wrong. “You might think I’m being – forward. Sorry, if I am. You grow pretty accustomed to these kind of talks when you work in this area as long as I do. You’d be surprised how many men we’ve let go because they couldn’t separate the personal from the public.”  
   
“I’m not surprised,” Tony tells him. And then, frowning, he adds: “Which comes first?”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“The personal or the public.”  
   
“Why, the public, of course.” Pierce says it, and he sounds like he means it, but his lips are twitching upwards. “I hope that doesn’t upset you.”  
   
Tony sighs. “Very little upsets me, Commander. I just – hope that he’s, uh.” He clears his throat. “Working for people who have his interests at heart. I wouldn’t want him… put in harm’s way.”  
   
“You’re fond of him.”  
   
“Yeah. Fond.”  
   
Pierce leans forward and stubs his cigarette out in the tray. Tony flinches, stupidly, but Pierce doesn’t see. “You know,” he says, “it’s been gratifying watching you, From Stark. Immensely gratifying.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Tony’s heard this routine before. He wonders what Pierce wants from him.  
   
“First omega to graduate from MIT, ever,” he recounts.  
   
“Also youngest _person_ to graduate from MIT, ever,” Tony mutters.  
   
“I know. But what’s the use in comparing you to everyone else, Tony, it’s not a level-playing field. There’s nothing compare against, not yet.” A pause. And then: “I would like to make it a level-playing field.”  
   
“How so?”  
   
“You know, people keep telling me I’m a good man,” he laughs, self-deprecating. “I’ve watched a lot change over my lifetime. When I was born, omegas still couldn’t vote. You’d only been allowed to have property for what, five years? Can you show me any other social cause that’s advanced as quickly?”  
   
“Not quickly enough.”  
   
“I agree,” Pierce says, and he nods. “Your father, he was a trailblazer in so many ways. And so regressive in others.”  
   
Tony looks at him. “I don’t, uh. Talk about. I mean – I don’t know what you mean.”  
   
“He must have felt good about himself, hmm? Sending you to college. He probably felt like he could pat himself on the back, consider his part well-done.”  
   
Tony, on some level, feels vindicated. “Yeah,” he agrees, slowly. “He probably did.”  
   
“And meanwhile, he had you play the good son, with the contracts, and the – informal contracts.” Pierce holds up his hand. “I’m shtum,” he says, “as far as anyone else knows, nothing happened, nothing at all. They’re certainly not going to hear from me.”  
   
Tony’s hand is white around his glass. “He told you? Or you were there?”  
   
“It was a long time ago. I heard about it, through certain circles. Never with anything but – immense sympathy, I should add.”  
   
“Well it doesn’t matter,” Tony says quickly, downing his drink. “It’s all history, now.”  
   
“Exactly. History. But I know you have a vested interest in the future, don’t you, From Stark?”  
   
“Honestly?” Tony throat is raw. “I kinda want to be remembered for something other than – being an omega. For doing something perfectly ordinary, something alphas and betas do every day, but doing it with – get this – a multi-purpose reproductive system.”  
   
“Tony,” Pierce says gently, “I think you’re beyond having to worry about that.”  
   
“Yeah, well – I know what you’re getting at,” Tony tells him, regretfully. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be the spearhead of whatever movement you’re brewing. Leave me out of it.”  
   
“Why?” He probes, calmly. “Because you don’t want to draw attention to yourself?”  
   
“To what’s between my legs,” Tony corrects, holding out his glass for a re-fill. “And besides,” he winces, sipping, “I give money. I have programmes. I help lots of omegas.”  
   
“Okay,” Pierce says, leaning back, “I hear you. I’ll take you at your word, From Stark. But keep it in mind. I’d like to see an omega in the senate by the end of my life.”  
   
“It’s lucky you’ve probably got a lot of life left in you, then.”  
   
“Hah. Aren’t you a cynic?” Pierce says, warmly. “I’ll toast to that, at least.”  
   
“To your long life,” Tony agrees, and decides he probably likes Pierce. He pushes, but know when to back off, and his scent is familiar, calm. He has no reason not to trust him, which as good a reason as any.  
   
They talk politics until Steve knocks on the door. “My God,” he says, taking a glass,“I used to think it would be honour to be greeted personally by the president but that man – that man is no Roosevelt.”  
   
Pierce laughs. He claps Steve’s hand, and tells him to enjoy the rest of the night. It’s _his_ night, he stresses, he should make the most of it. He cups Tony’s face, a traditional goodbye, and tells him to make sure the Captain behaves himself. It feels like two lovers being sent off to prom by a kindly father. And Pierce even wears the same cologne as Dad, Tony realises – he must have it sprayed at the scent points on his wrists, because so close to his nose, it’s strikingly familiar.  
   
He realises he’s lost Steve, or rather, his bearings – the champagne must have gone to his head. “Woah,” he hears Steve say, laughing at him, or rather, with him; he grips his waist to stop him stumbling, catches his hand. “You drunk already?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “I just – lost myself, for a second,” he says, and Steve spins him around, clutches him to his chest.  
   
“I need to schmooze,” he says regretfully, “but find me, after.”  
   
“After,” Tony agrees, and he feels slightly breathless, dizzy from the twist with Steve’s and Pierce’s scents intermingled in his nostrils. “Schmooze,” he says, rolling the word over his tongue, “hah! Aren’t you just a regular political player these days, Steve.”  
   
“He hasn’t got so much time for you, huh,” Rumlow says at his back, watching Steve disappear down the hallway.  
   
“Shut up, guard-dog,” Tony frowns, without looking round. And then he follows, off into the crowd.  
   
   
Two hours later, and he finds Steve in conversation with last person he’d expect to find at a military shin-dig. Dalcher, pretty young Dalcher, with the perky tits and kind smile, whose hair is now greying in places, and whose face is lined. How long has it been? “You never kept in touch,” she says, but there’s no vitriol there; she likely understands, given the circumstances.  
   
“Well, I got busy,” Tony says, by way of explanation.  
   
“Of course you did, clever boy,” she laughs. “I would have bet on you, you know, if they were running the odds.”  
   
“I’m not sure chances of becoming a superhero would be an option.”  
   
“The world has changed,” she agrees, “as I was just saying to the Captain.”  
   
Steve’s been watching them closely. “I’m sorry,” he says, “are you friends?”  
   
“We were,” Dalcher says. She wears her hair clipped back in low bun – Tony used to be so fascinated by her hair, the way it feathered on her shoulders. “Briefly,” she adds.  
   
“Emma was _nice_ to me,” Tony stresses, just to really drive home the point. The last thing he wants is Steve getting the wrong idea and snapping her neck.  
   
“Oh,” Steve’s face clears, “well in that case, it’s good to meet you. I didn’t realise you knew each other.”  
   
“Small world,” Dalcher says, “Tony knows everyone. We really must have dinner,” she smiles. She still wears the same shade lip. “Catch up,” she adds, tapping Tony’s chest with her finger, nail neatly rounded.  
   
Tony clears his throat. He subtly tilts his head to the left, flicks his eyes to where Steve is standing. “Sure,” he says, pointedly, “ _just_ dinner.”  
   
She looks between them. “Oh,” she says, “ _oh._ God, curse me and my stupid beta nose, hmm? Apologies, Captain – you know I wouldn’t. If I knew he was yours.” She’s so smooth, the apology so sincere. “Good to see you robbing the cradle, Stark, you deserve it. If you would excuse me, then.”  
   
Steve watches her retreat. “She was charming,” he says. “I didn’t know you went for beta women. Did you date?”  
   
“I don’t,” Tony says, bluntly, “and no. Hey, I was just looking for you to say – should we blow this off? Go upstairs, order some room service…”  
   
“Is there an occasion?”  
   
“Yeah, you hate this and so do I, so let’s go be miserable together.”  
   
Steve just nods, accepting this. “Give me ten minutes,” he says, fishing out a room card. “I’ll meet you there. Order ahead, get me a – ah, go on. Get me some lobster, would you?”  
   
“Wow, moving up in the world, huh?”  
   
Steve takes his chin, tips it upwards. “I’m a Captain,” he says, “in my capital city, having my ass-licked by the richest men in the country, and I’ve got a sweet bitch to warm my bed tonight.” He kisses him, too deeply to be acceptable in public, one arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him onto the tips of his toes. He kisses him, right there, in a room full of brass who at this moment are noting it down, trying to work out how they can use it to their advantage.  
   
And Tony doesn’t care. Steve pulls away, lightly thumbs his lower lip. “I’ve got to do the rounds,” he says, “I want you naked and in bed by the time I get there.”  
   
Tony’s head is just a little cloudy. “What about room service?”  
   
“I’ll be there,” Steve promises. “And if I’m not?” He leans close, gently kisses the shell of Tony’s ear. “You’ll just have to answer naked,” he murmurs.  
   
Tony rolls his jaw. His clears his throat. “I’ll see you. Ten minutes.”  
   
“Yes you will,” Steve agrees.  
   
They’ve given Steve the presidential suite. The president – who is actually in attendance – had to take the honeymoon rooms, and Alexander Pierce, an alpha who outranks Steve in both years and experience, is relegated to a White House view-only room. _What would dad say if he could see you now, huh?_ Tony thinks, kicking off his shoes and shedding clothes across the floor. He always wanted him to get hitched to someone powerful, always moved the goalposts, grabby, ambitious man that he was.  
   
He puts in an order with the kitchen, lobster with garlic butter and two portions of fries for Steve, a spaghetti for Tony. He thinks about Dalcher, older now, and how many years it’s been. She was always kind to him, out of all of them. She taught him so much.  
   
Tony pillows his head on his arms at the foot of the bed, waits for Steve to enter. The sheets are soft, better than silk, the room’s air a constant neutral. When Steve walks in, he just about manages to drag up his head. “Ten minutes,” he says, approvingly. “As usual, your timing’s impeccable.”  
   
Steve pulls at his bowtie, shrugs off his tux jacket. “You look so fucking sweet, and you have no idea.”  
   
“I do, actually,” Tony smiles, propping up his chin on his hands, twitching his toes in the air. “How was it? Any questions about your quick exit?”  
   
“I think the kiss cleared that up. No one was going to tell me _not_ to see to you.”  
   
“Oh, to see to me?”  
   
“Sure,” Steve smirks, leaning down to smack Tony’s ass, “you know, make sure your needs are met.”  
   
“You’re such a fucking skeez,” Tony laughs as Steve twists his hips, puts him on his back, drags him down the bed.  
   
“Say that again,” he asks, hands bracketing his head.  
   
“You’re such a – “  
   
He kisses him, bites his bottom lip.  
   
“Skeez,” Tony finishes, breaking away. “Don’t you go thinking that’ll work twice in one night.”  
   
“I’m sure I’ll find some other way to shut you up,” Steve says, nipping at his nose.  
   
There’s a knock at the door. “You’re getting that,” Tony tells him, bluntly.  
   
“You sure?”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“I like it when you blush. Won’t you just humor me?”  
   
“Sure, I’ll do it. But you’ll use up all your good favour for the night.”  
   
“And what does your good favour get me?”  
   
“I was thinking a bubble bath,” Tony says, slowly. “Maybe some wine. A massage. But if you _really_ want me to answer that door…”  
   
Steve is already moving. “Room service,” the waiter says, and Steve tells him he’ll take it from here.  
   
They eat on the bed like teenagers at a sleepover. Not that Tony ever had any sleepovers. Or at least, any sleepovers that didn’t involve him getting fucked in return for material gain. They bitch about the vice-president and agree that he’s just waiting for one more scandal to seize the reigns, and they laugh about General Ross and pray that he’s one more heart attack away from dropping dead. “I don’t like Rumlow,” Tony says, poaching a fry, snapping it in half with his teeth.  
   
“Oh yeah?” Steve wipes his mouth with a tissue.  
   
“He’s aggressive.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, more or less. “It’s his job, though.”  
   
“You like him,” Tony realises.  
   
Steve sighs. “I guess. He’s – it’s good to be around alphas sometimes, you know? I know he’s aggressive. He’s good at his job. From what I’ve seen, that’s all that counts.”  
   
Does Tony say, _I don’t like his vibe?_ His instincts set his back up when he’s with him, but then, all alpha’s do that.  
   
Although Steve never did, not even at first.  
   
“How about your woman. Dahmer.”  
   
“Dalcher.”  
   
“Her. She knew you, huh?”  
   
“I know what you’re asking.”  
   
Steve shrugs, licks some butter off his thumb. “Was it a contract? She wasn’t listed in your file.”  
   
“I had some – informal dealings,” Tony relents, finally. “After my first, Mr Cain.”  
   
“She was one of them?”  
   
“Yeah. And you know what? One of the best weekends of my life, so. Don’t go threatening her for reparation or some crazy alpha shit.”  
   
“What did she do?” Steve asks, “that was so great?”  
   
“You asking for a friend?” Tony teases.  
   
Steve holds up his hands. “I don’t know, Tony, that’s high praise coming from you. I mean, _best_ weekend of your life? _Best?_ It had to be special.”  
   
 _She was kind to me, and she let me choose._ “Rope,” Tony says, simply.  
   
“Rope? Is that all?”  
   
“Steve, I’ve given you that the answer, it’s up to you to do something with it.” And then he laughs. “I was young, I was inexperienced,” he says honestly. “Anything that wasn’t just vanilla sex was interesting to me.”  
   
“Rope,” Steve is frowning. “Rope like how?”  
   
“Like, uh,” Tony smirks. He explains exactly how they tied him, and how it felt, and what they did to him after he was all dozy and hot and desperate.  
   
Steve’s cheeks flush. “That fun, huh?”  
   
“It was pretty fun, yeah.”  
   
“I mean – I could do without the crowd. You’re such an exhibitionist.”  
   
“Not a real one. But sure.” Tony pokes Steve with his toes. “If you ever want to… tie me up,” he says, lightly, “just let me know in advance. I’ll buy the rope.”  
   
Steve swallows, then clears his throat. “You said something about a bath.”  
   
Tony draws it with steaming water and bubbles and some kind of lavender essential oil he finds under the sink. The tub is so wide and deep it can easily accommodate the two of them. He watches Steve strip off in the mirror; the slope of his back, the curve of his waist, the broadness of his shoulders. _That’s mine,_ he thinks before he can be shocked by the possessiveness. _He belongs to me._  
   
“You first,” Tony prompts. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”  
   
“Perfect,” Steve sighs, sliding beneath the bubbles. “You’re perfect, Tony.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees, carefully climbing into the tub. He slips between Steve’s legs, his back to his chest. He intertwines their hands.  
   
“Tony?” Steve says, quietly.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Can I ask a question?”  
   
“Sure.” His eyes are half-lidded. He rises and falls with the weight of Steve’s long, slow breaths. “Anything.”  
   
“Have you slept with anyone lately? Other than me?”  
   
He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely curious. Tony knows Steve has been with other people, a few at least. And Tony…  
   
“It’s my job,” Tony says, quietly.  
   
“Not your job. Don’t say that.”  
   
“It’s something I do effectively to the benefit of this team, that only I can do. It feels like a job.”  
   
Maybe Steve can tell he’s getting tetchy, because he smooths his brow down against his chest, wipes back damp hair. “I don’t mind,” he says, “I know it’s important to you.”  
   
Tony relaxes. “I haven’t gone out of my way,” he says, honestly. “Only when I needed to.”  
   
Steve leans forward, presses a small kiss to his cheekbone. “Do you ever think, maybe, you’ll not need to do that anymore?”  
   
Tony’s heart is in his throat. “I don’t know,” he tells him, carefully. It’s as close as he can get to, _I’m not ready for this._ And Steve kisses him again, this time on the crown of his head, even though he can scent that he’s disappointed.  
   
“Maybe one day,” he says quietly, shifting so his leg is wrapped around Tony’s, water lapping gently at their chests.  
   
“Hey,” Tony says, poking him slightly with his elbow. “I’ve been meaning to ask – no pressure, but what’s your number one fantasy, huh? Involving me, of course. And others! If that’s your thing,” he adds.  
   
“My number one? Uh,” Tony feels him shake his head, exhale. “God, I don’t know, Tony. That’s a lot of pressure.”  
   
“You’re lying,” he teases, because he can feel him thicken against the small of his back. “I don’t mind, even if it’s the filthiest thing in the world. I can take it.”  
   
“It’s embarrassing.”  
   
“So’s mine. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”  
   
“Oh, I already know yours,” Steve grumbles, “we all love a bit of _rope,_ huh?”  
   
“That’s not my ultimate fantasy, Steve. I know you have one. Go on,” Tony pouts, dragging his foot up and down the length of Steve’s leg, “tell me. You know it gets me hot to think about all the ways I can serve you.”  
   
“Jesus,” Steve sighs, letting his head rest on the back of the tub. “Have I fallen into some kind of parallel universe? I’m sitting in a bath, I’ve got $300 worth of lobster in my belly, and I have a sweet bitch practically _begging_ to hear my – “ Steve laughs “ – ultimate sexual fantasy, because apparently just getting on their knees for me turns them on.”  
   
Tony laughs, lets his cheek rest against Steve’s chest. He’s so relaxed, all warm and fuzzy. “Go on,” he says, “you know you want to. I can guarantee – guarantee – that it won’t even be close to the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
Tony thinks. “There was an alpha, once,” he remembers, “that wanted me to fuck _him._ Like, using _my_ dick.”  
   
“Strange, but not the weirdest. There are some people who like – “  
   
“Yeah, that’s not the weird part. He wanted to pretend I was his son, and he was my dad. And he had a diaper – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“ – man-sized, with the little sticky tabs and everything – “  
   
“Nope, no. That’s fine, I can guess the rest. You didn’t, uh…”  
   
“I didn’t. Is that relieving for you to hear?”  
   
“Tony, I never realised there was something you could do that was physically un-arousing, but I think I found it.”  
   
“So, the perfect time for you to tell me your deepest, darkest fantasy,” Tony teases, tipping back his head so Steve can see him run his tongue along his bottom lip. “Go on, Rogers. What is it? You want me – in a little maid’s outfit? You want me to be a pack bitch? What about… lingerie. Sex toys? Captain, oh my Captain, what do you wank about on those long, lonely nights when I’m not – “  
   
Steve takes Tony’s arms and crosses them on his belly, holds him there, supportive. Warm, and secure. “Shh,” he soothes, and Tony… does. He hears himself stop. Quiet.  
   
The tap is dripping. Steve is thinking. His thumbs rub wet circles around the inside of Tony’s wrists. “My deepest, darkest fantasy,” he rumbles, voice smiling, “is.” He seems to think some more. “I’ve been out. Working. It’s been hard, I’m tired. The job went well, but it was hard-won.”  
   
“Why, in your ultimate sexual fantasy, do we have to be at war?”  
   
“Shh,” Steve chides, distracted. “I come home, and – “  
   
“I’m waiting, bent over, holding your slippers in one hand and robe in the other?”  
   
Steve’s thumbs press warningly. “No. But in this world, we’ve signed a contract. A proper contract, old-fashioned. I’m leasing you for, I don’t know, six months, a year. And you’ve agreed to it, because you know it’s good for you. You want to be taken care of, and you want to be taken out of your head.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Oh,” he hears himself say.  
   
“Yeah. You don’t cook, or clean, because I know that’s not you. Maybe, you spend your day doing those – those programmes that you like. You know, with Jarvis.” Steve sounds so earnest – Tony didn’t even realise he’d noticed. “I like to think, you’ll work out on the balcony, or go for walks, and maybe you make some omega friends. I don’t know,” he adds, quickly, sounding embarrassed. “That’s just part of it. Maybe – you do those things. That would be good for you, I think.”  
   
“Keep going,” Tony prompts, out of curiosity and – and leaning into it, slightly. Steve’s voice is smooth and calm, and the water is warm. He wants to live in Steve’s world, just for a bit.  
   
“I think – I think you do wear a collar,” Steve says, sounding a little regretful. “I know that’s not modern, I guess. But for as long as I owned you, I’d want you to wear one, and you want to do it, too. When people see you – they know. I don’t like fancy toys, and tools, and _rope._ I’d make you mine with my own two hands, and when I’m done, I want people to know about it.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “How would you make me yours?” He murmurs.  
   
“There wouldn’t be rules. You’d just know. At first, it might be harder for you – maybe, you’re so used to just doing what you want, touching who you like, you’re not used to being owned.” Steve slides a hand up Tony’s chest; he cups his throat. With his thumb, he strokes the skin behind Tony’s left ear, probably enjoys his shiver, the way his mouth opens, just slightly, helpless to it. “Maybe at first, I need to be stricter. I have to tan your ass a few times, because you’re being more than bratty, or because you try sneaking off with some young stud who thinks he can take you away. But I always think, secretly, you do it because you like it. Being put on my lap, I mean. Having me show you your place.”  
   
 _True,_ Tony thinks, dreamily. Steve doesn’t stop his stroking. Tony wonders if he could come like this, just on the words and simple touch.  
   
“I don’t ever have to tell you. You wanted to know where you’d be, after I came home from the job? You’d be in bed. Naked,” Steve adds, “always, because you know you’re not going to be needing clothes, not for a long while. Only thing on you is my collar, with my tag. And it’s the best you’ve ever fucking had, Tony, I can tell you that for sure. You fucking love it. Maybe I take you on your knees, or I let you ride me. By the time I’m done? You’re so loose I can use four fingers, easy enough, and you beg for that, too. You clean them off when I’m finished.”  
   
With his free hand, Steve cups Tony’s jaw, his open, lax mouth. Two fingers, fucking into him, against his tongue. _He owns this mouth,_ Tony thinks, arching his back. _He owns every hole I have, if that’s what he wants._  
   
“It’s not enough for me, though,” Steve murmurs, massaging his throat. “It’s not enough to just _know_ you’re mine. I need everyone to know. So they think, that Rogers, he’s got the sweetest bitch around. What kind of alpha he must be. And so they think, shit, I can’t touch him. Not ever. Not when he’s got the Captain at his back.”  
   
He spreads his fingers in Tony’s mouth, coaxes him to whimper with a strong, long stroke across his sensitive gland. “I’d never make you scared,” he says, softly. “I’d never make you do something you didn’t want. You’d want to do it, though. You’d want them to all know. Maybe, I have to punish you one day.” Steve clucks his tongue. “Maybe, you’ve been bratty, you’ve pushed it too far with some brass. And then, I guess I just have to put you on my lap, make sure they know who owns you. I’m stroking your sweet little neck, and you can’t even control how hot you’re getting, and that’s what happens when you step out of line. They’ll know, I have a hold of you. And they will never cross you, not so long as you have me.”  
   
Tony wants him to. He wants him to, right now. The idea plants in brain, like a seed. He wants him to march him downstairs, still sopping wet, naked, and drape him over his lap. _Rumlow,_ he’ll say, and Tony will make those sweet, soft noises that he’s making now, so vulnerable and yet so totally, fucking safe. “Oh,” he says, he _moans,_ and Steve rewards it with a kiss to his head.  
   
“You do like it,” he murmurs, “I know you do. I’d put you in panties, Tony. Pretty, tiny, lace things. I like blue, do you like blue?”  
   
“Uh huh,” Tony slurs, nodding. He likes whatever Steve likes.  
   
“Then blue it is. You’d like wearin’ them for me,” he tells him, voice rough. “You’ll like the how they feel, after your ass is all red and hot, and they’re so smooth and silky.”  
   
“Mmm,” he whimpers, squirming in his lap. He pulls off Steve’s fingers with a wet ‘pop’. “Whatever you want,” he sighs.  
   
He lips by his ear. “At night,” he’s saying, kissing the shell of his ear, punctuating his words. “You’ll sleep at my feet. It’s the safest you’ll ever feel. And you’ll love it.” He strokes his hand down Tony’s chest, releases his throat. “And that’s my fantasy,” he says, louder.  
   
Tony swallows, neck bare. “That, uh,” he croaks. “That was good.”  
   
“Was it?”  
   
“Yeah, it – very – very detailed, so. Thank you.”  
   
“What about you, Tony. What’s your fantasy?”  
   
“Can’t remember.”  
   
“Can’t remember?”  
   
“Whatever you just said. All that, that’s my fantasy now.” He shivers, rubs himself against Steve’s body. “Arms,” he rasps, pulling Steve’s around him. “Just until the water gets cold.”  
   
It does, eventually. Tony had almost fallen asleep there, in the steam, and the warmth of the steam. “Tony,” Steve is saying, distantly, softly. “Wake up, sweetheart.”  
   
He blinks blurrily, lets Steve wrap him in a towel. He brushes some water away from his brow, stops it from running into his eye. “You want anything?” He murmurs.  
   
Tony yawns. “Water,” he says. The hot air has made him thirsty.  
   
He climbs onto the covers, snuggles on-top of the sheets still wrapped in his towel, the way you do as a child after a bubble bath. Steve passes him a bottle, capped, still cold from the mini-bar. He’s pulled on briefs, which is a shame, but Tony can’t have everything he wants.  
   
“Pierce,” Tony says, when Steve rolls onto his side to face him.  
   
“Huh.”  
   
“I like him. So – just in case you were worrying, or… I know Rumlow’s an ass, but, I don’t hate all your knew friends.”  
   
Steve smiles. “He’s not my friend, he’s my boss.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Tony leans forward, kisses his nose. “Light on or light off?”  
   
“Off. The arc’s it’s own little night-light anyway.”  
   
“Shut-up,” Tony snorts in the darkness, “you love it.”  
   
“I do,” Steve agrees, and he pulls him close, and then they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know tony's an unreliable narrator. please keep that in mind -- he doesn't always interpret things the way they actually are, for lots of reasons. anyway, want to hear how you think their relationship is shaping up, specifically how steve feels about tony compared to how tony feels about steve. this stuff is practice for me idk i just really want to know if the things i'm trying to get across are........ coming across


	11. scars

Tony doesn’t think too hard about it.  
   
They spend a Saturday shopping, because Tony wants to. He talks Steve into buying a new suit, and so then Steve dutifully trails around while Tony sprays perfumes and compares shades of rouge he’ll never wear and holds up ties to see which best matches Steve’s eyes. It’s indulgent of him, and Tony appreciates it, hooks his arm when he offers to carry the bags, kisses his cheek when he rolls his eyes and mutters that he didn’t fight a war to be a pack mule.  
   
They get lunch at a bistro, and no one recognises them. “My mom used to take me here,” Tony tells Steve, absently, watching him chew a too-large bite of croque monsieur, chin balanced on hand.  
   
“Oh yeah?” Steve says, patting his mouth. “You never talk about her.”  
   
“Hmm,” Tony agrees. “You still got stamina?”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“I need a winter coat.”  
   
“Tony, you have – a million winter coats.”  
   
“I don’t,” he says stubbornly, because Steve doesn’t understand the _intricacies_ of seasonal clothing trends and exactly how hurtful bloggers can be when you’re wearing last year’s coat. “I’ll make it up to you,” he smiles.  
   
“And then home,” Steve makes him promise.  
   
“And then home,” Tony agrees.  
   
Later, Tony is flicking through news headlines and Steve is fiddling with some new pencils he bought, holding them up to the light, comparing. Tony pauses to watch him; hunched over, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, tongue between his teeth. “Do you like them?” Tony asks, smiles lazily.  
   
“They’re good,” he says, drawing a line in green down his new sketchbook. “I never could have – you know. Before.”  
   
“I guess the 21st century has it’s perks.”  
   
Steve looks at him. “Yeah,” he says, softly, “it does.”  
   
Tony breaks away first. He stares intently at his tablet. “You seen this?” He asks, clearing his throat, “some seals sat on a woman’s tent.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Steve is slipping down the bed, his hand on Tony’s foot. “That’s funny.”  
   
Tony shivers. “I’m ticklish,” he says, _“don’t.”_  
   
“I figured,” Steve tells him, and his lips twitch.  
   
“Don’t,” Tony says again, but he doesn’t mean it.  Steve lifts his leg, scrapes his nails against the sole of his foot, laughs when Tony laughs. He kisses Tony’s ankle, the delicate joint. Tony sighs. And then his finger trails a soft circle around the skin, over the foot, behind it. He realises.  
   
“Wait,” he blurts, sitting up, foot still in Steve’s hands. “Wait, don’t.”  
   
Steve is tracing the soft, silvery scar that wraps around his lower leg, just a little before the curve of his foot. “When?” He asks.  
   
“I don’t know,” Tony replies, and it’s not a lie. Not exactly. A better question might have been, _why,_ because Tony can’t remember exactly at what point in the night he had got them. Maybe just from struggling.  
   
“And here,” Steve murmurs, carefully taking his other foot. “Less, though.”  
   
Tony doesn’t have anything to say. He lies back down. He thinks, it had to happen eventually. It’s not like he could hide what he is forever.  
   
Steve kisses it, he mouths along the thin trace, the circle of whitened flecks around the olive skin on his ankle. You don’t get scars like that from piloting a suit, or bullets, or even knives. Slow, blunt damage.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes.  
   
Steve’s kisses move up his calves. “You’ve shaved,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down his leg.  
   
“Do you like it?” His voice sounds rough, even to his own ears.  
   
“It’s – interesting,” Steve replies, which Tony knows means he does, but doesn’t want to admit it. The same way his eyes lit up when Tony ran lipstick across his hand to test the colour, and bought the sheer red panties.  
   
“I am interesting,” Tony agrees, drowsily. His lips are at his knee, now, and then further up; he scrapes his teeth against the skin above the joint, teasing.  
   
There’s no hiding the scars inside his thighs. Maybe, Steve had noticed before, and knowing less, thought they were interesting birthmarks. Most have faded, disappeared and healed away. The worst, where the ends were held longer against his skin to make him scream, are almost craterous, pockmarked – not noticeable, ignorable, if you’re not looking.  
   
They did the soles of his feet, too, but those are long gone. Tony’s toes twitch at the memory, and Steve’s kisses on each scar don’t do much to bring him back. But then he nips at the soft, plump skin of his inner thigh, bites once, then again, _harder,_ and Tony gasps into the pain. “Oh,” he breathes, fingers tangled in his hair.  
   
Steve sucks on the skin apologetically, blows air over the likely forming bruise. He draws back. “Do you want me to continue?” He asks.  
   
Tony doesn’t know why he asks it. He doesn’t know why he answers, ‘no’, honestly, without fear. Steve accepts this, crawls forward so he’s lying next to Tony. Rolls onto his side. “Can I ask a question?” he says, blinking at him, slowly.  
   
“Sure.” _So long as it isn’t about the scars._  
   
“Did you love your parents?”  
   
Tony’s nose wrinkles. “What?”  
   
“Earlier today. At lunch, you said that your mom used to take you there, but you never mention her. But you must think about her, otherwise you wouldn’t have said. And you wouldn’t have taken me,” he adds.  
   
Tony thinks, carefully. “I loved my parents,” he says, neutrally. “Of course I did. I do, I mean.”  
   
Steve doesn’t say anything, but his silence is expectant.  
   
“I loved them as much as… any kid who was taken care of mostly by nannies, and shuttled between tutors and private school by a driver, can love their parents.” That’s not fair, Tony thinks. He _did_ love them more than that, in an aching, desperate sort of way. “It’s different,” Tony explains, or tries to. “When you’re rich.”  
   
He winces, because he knows how that sounds. Steve doesn’t look offended. “How is it different?” He asks, pillowing his head on his arm. Tony can never figure this out – does he genuinely want to know Tony’s opinion? Does he just like hearing him talk? Maybe it helps him sleep.  
   
“Well,” Tony starts, squinting, trying think of the best way to put it delicately. “Obviously… the omega gene tends to concentrate in old lines, right? Because it runs through the carrier. And it was always a status symbol to have us, not to mention the, uh, the benefits, genetically, of spritely baby-machines who can tend the nest _and_ defend it.”  
   
“We were always taught it was cavemen,” Steve says, frowning. “Like, the alpha would take the beta men to hunt, and the beta women would be left with the omega.”  
   
“Sure, maybe. It’s probably more complicated than that,” Tony says, without outright saying that it’s mostly breedist nonsense. “I mean, what about female alphas? They exist. So where would they fit?”  
   
“I guess they have a role too,” Steve says, but he sounds unsure.  
   
“The thing is, Steve, it’s mostly all made-up,” Tony tells him, brutally. “Seriously. Sure, there’s plenty of Darwinist explanations for why everything is the way it is, but maybe it just _is._ Maybe we’re just genetic quirks.”  
   
“No,” Steve says, earnestly. “This works best. I mean – being alpha, and having an omega. It makes sense. It’s good, to have natural leaders, and – “  
   
Tony stares at him, pointedly. “And?” He prompts.  
   
Steve flushes. “And – you,” he finishes. “Okay, I see your point.”  
   
“So, it’s always been a status-symbol,” Tony continues, “to have an omega. Alphas, you make up, what, 25% of the population, tops? We’re 10%. So, no matter what, you’re always going to end up with an alpha that mates a beta, and goes on to just have beta and alpha kids. The real power comes when you’re an alpha – a prime alpha,” Tony winks, “much like yourself, who has the ability to _get_ an omega. The alpha-alpha, you know? And of course, then you get into weird territory, with harems and kings and dynasties, but – for the most part,” he explains, in his long-winded way, “the alpha-est alpha gets the omega. But we’re not cavemen anymore.”  
   
“So, in today’s terms, that means whichever alpha is richest.”  
   
“Sure. Other things, too – not just money. There’s basic attraction, and contracts of allegiance, and protection.” Tony averts his eyes. “For the most part, though, alphery-alphas will snatch up the omegas. And for lots of other,” Tony sighs, because he’s boring himself, “socio-economic reasons,” he waves a hand, “alphas tend to be richer, too. So the omega gene is carried through the mom, and ends up pretty concentrated in certain circles.”  
   
“Your dad,” Steve says, “he wasn’t rich, not at first.”  
   
“But then he was. That’s pure Darwinism in action, Steve. He was born poor, and normal, and through sheer – talent, and some fucking charm, he made it to the top. The alpha-est alpha. And he snapped up my mom, because that’s how you establish yourself.”  
   
“But not all omegas are rich,” Steve reasons. “I knew prostitutes, Tony. They weren’t being snapped up.”  
   
“No,” Tony concedes, “it’s not, like, a rule, you know? I could have run off with any alpha off the street, popped out his spawn, and they could have been omega. I’m not saying, you don’t get poor O’s, of course you fucking do. Just that – I don’t know, Steve, I’m pulling these figures out of my ass, but if I hazarded a guess – maybe 2% of us come from very old, very established lines. The other 8%... they’re your prostitutes. I mean, not all of them, obviously. Most are just normal, middle-class… I’m – talking myself into a corner.”  
   
“So your parents.”  
   
“It’s different. They knew – and I knew, from a very young age – that I was going to be married off to someone for some kind of gain. Because that’s what the alpha-est alphas do to their omegas. They give them to other alpha, so they shore up their accounts, and their… rivalries, if you can call them that. It’s all very game of thrones, Steve.”  
   
“I don’t watch that show. Were you ever going to be married?”  
   
Tony thinks. Then he nods.  
   
“But you didn’t. Because your parents died?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, carefully.  “My – stock was damaged, you know? Some rumours, some other stuff. The marriage offers stopped coming in. And then my parents died. I’ve had offers for breeding, since, but I just… couldn’t do that,” Tony admits, lamely.  
   
“Of course not,” Steve agrees. “You could never give up a child.”  
   
No, he means he literally couldn’t do it.  
   
“When you talk about lines,” Steve continues, “is that your mom? Is she from an old line?”  
   
“God, you’re just full of questions tonight, huh?”  
   
“I’m interested,” Steve says, shuffling closer. “You know everything from my history. I feel like – I know so much of yours, on paper, but I don’t understand it. Not really.”  
   
Tony feels warm. “Yeah,” he says, answering the question. “She was. I could probably trace back to the Mayflower,” he laughs.  
   
“What, really?”  
   
“Uh. No. I mean – it’s just an expression, you know? That’s kinda what you’re dealing with, with me, Steve.” He leans forward, kisses his nose. “I’m old blood. Going back far enough, my ancestors would have warmed the beds of kings.”  
   
“Mmm,” Steve agrees. His eyes are moving around Tony’s face, quiet, calm. “I can believe that,” he says.  
   
“Oh yeah?”  
   
He reaches out, follows the line of Tony’s cheekbone with his finger. “It’s interesting,” he says, “I guess – I know all of this stuff, but it’s interesting to hear what you think.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. Steve strokes him. “Well, just so you know what you’re dealing with. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “that it’s the world I come with. I wish I didn’t. I wish I was…”  
   
He doesn’t finish the sentence.  
   
“Hey,” Steve says, “if you’re some blue-blooded, fancy bitch, does that make me your bit of rough?”  
   
Tony cracks open an eye, tries to hide his smile. Busted. “More than you know, Steve.”  
   
Steve sits up. “Seriously?” He laughs. “Am I? I am, aren’t I? I’m your – your taboo? God, of _course._ You would have been told your whole life, don’t even look at assholes like me, we’ll stay for the heat and you’ll never see us again. And I don’t do contracts, or fancy reparations, or Ivy Leagues. My God. I ‘ve cracked it. I’ve cracked the fuckin’ code.”  
   
“Well,” Tony drags him back down, giggling like a stupid idiot, “you’re just the alpha-est alpha, aren’t you, Steve? I guess there’s just… something _about_ you,” he teases, climbing his fingers up his chest, one by one. “You’ve won me.”  
   
“Have I?” He asks. And the atmosphere sours. Just like that.  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. “I,” he starts, and doesn’t know how to finish.  
   
“It’s fine,” Steve says, gently. “One of these days I’ll stop bugging you about it.” He tries to smile, but it’s not the same.  
   
It isn’t fair, or right, of Tony to string him along like this. To tease him with something – a monogamy he might not ever be able to really offer. “It’s not you,” he tells him, helplessly. “I’m not – I’m not made to belong to one person. I’m not bred that way.”  
   
“I would protect you, Tony.” His voice is so soft, so earnest. “All those things you feel you need to do, to keep yourself safe, to keep ahead of the curve, in control. You wouldn’t have to, if you had me.”  
   
 _But I do have you,_ Tony thinks. _I have you, and everyone else._  
   
He rolls onto his back. “You could do better,” he says shortly, staring at the ceiling.  
   
“Better than you? With your – royal line?” Steve is trying to tease, now, to bring back that happy atmosphere.  
   
“My royal line ends with me,” Tony hears himself, blunt. “I can’t breed.”  
   
“You…”  
   
“Yeah. So, keep that in mind, next time you want to have me all to yourself.”  
   
“You said, people wanted breeding contracts – “  
   
“And I couldn’t.”  
   
“I thought you meant emotionally.”  
   
“No. I meant physically. I already told you, Steve, my stock was damaged. Lots of me was damaged. You can’t kiss every fucking scar, and you shouldn’t want to. I like you. I love this. But I’m not going to delude you into thinking I can give you what you want, because I can’t. Not emotionally, not physically.”  
   
There’s a long silence, after that. Then:  
   
“Well,” Steve says, sighing, rolling onto his front, punching the pillow. “I don’t want kids, for what it’s worth. And even if I did, we could get a breeder. But that other stuff – is fine. I’m in no rush, Tony.” He reaches forward, kisses his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he adds, quietly, “if I upset you.”  
   
Tony’s eyes are closed. He grunts.  
   
He switches off the nightlight. In the dark, Tony’s scars seem to burn, like brands. Sharp bracelets. He entertains this thought: a warm day, the smell of freshly mown grass. There’s a child, small and blond, running into Alpha’s arms, and he picks him up, swings him round until he’s screaming with laugher. Tony buries his nose into the crown of his baby’s head, fresh and soft, burbling happily on his lap. And he leans back against the tree trunk, so Alpha can kiss his cheek, and ask him about his day.  
   
The things he could have had, if hadn’t been so fucking stupid. It’s not worth thinking about. He sighs, turns over, presses his head between Steve’s shoulder-blades. This is good, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update! uh, going through some stuff. don't know when i'll update again soon. your comments are appreciated.


	12. burn

“You get here often?”  
   
Tony frowns. There’s an alpha in his bubble. “What,” he says, shortly, “to science conventions?”  
   
“Sure. You get here often?” The man smiles, genuine. His hands are in his pockets, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. What is he, some kind of – male model? He’s American, but Tony has never heard of him. There aren’t many Americans here tonight, and Tony was sure he knew most of them.  
   
“To Hong Kong? To this particular hotel? I don’t follow.” Tony flags down the waiter, fishes in his wallet for another $100.  
   
The man’s hand is on his wrist; lightly touching. “I’ll buy,” he says. “A scotch,” he tells the bartender, “and another gin for my friend.”  
   
Tony wants to say, _I’m not your friend._ Instead, he smirks. “I’m sorry,” he says, “there’s been some confusion. I’m not here… alone.” His eyes drift past the bar to the lowered lounge, where Steve is sitting, legs crossed, sketching idly against a backdrop of night and lights.  
   
“Ah,” the man says, regretfully, pulling back. “Am I stepping on toes?”  
   
Tony winces. “Probably, yeah. I admire your guts, though. Not many people would buy me a drink under his nose.”  
   
The man waves a hand. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says, leaning heavily against the bar, hands clasped. “I mean – I literally didn’t know. Apologies. I’m not a part of that world.”  
   
“’That’ world?”  
   
The man shrugs, nods at the bartender when he slides over their drinks. “Espionage,” he says, with a flourish, downing his in one. “War. Whatever it is they do.”  
   
“ _They_ do? What does that make me?” Tony isn’t offended, just – interested in the perspective of this stranger, who knows when to back off and doesn’t invade his personal space.  
   
“Well, you’re a scientist,” the man says, like that’s a given, like it’s simple.  
   
“Am I really?” Tony says, sitting back, not stupid enough to be flattered. “And what are you?”  
   
“I’m a scientist, too. A bio-engineer, I think. Well, I like to call myself one. I have a colleague do most of the, uh,” he smirks, raises his brows, “heavy-lifting.”  
   
“Your name? Sorry, it’s just – I don’t think I’ve heard of your work.”  
   
“You probably haven’t. Very secret, privately funded, out of public view. I have a few interested buyers,” he says, slowly. “In fact, I was thinking _you_ might be interested.”  
   
“Me.”  
   
“You. That so hard to believe?”  
   
“No. I get people begging my ear all the time, although they’re usually less – “ Tony looks him, up and down, “ _finessed.”_  
   
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”  
   
“I still don’t know your name.”  
   
“Killian. Aldrich Killian. But just call me Rich, everyone else does.”  
   
“And what have you got to show me that’s so special?”  
   
Killian leans closer. Face to face. “I was hoping to take you upstairs and give you a demonstration,” he murmurs.  
   
Tony’s eyes slide past his head to the increasing blur of Steve in his peripheral. “You’ll have to take it up with him,” he says, honestly, flicking his eyes back to Killian’s. And then he pulls away.  
   
Steve’s hand on his waist. “Tony,” he says, “I wondered what was taking so long.”  
   
Killian sits back, smiles, buttons up his jacket with one hand. “Apologies,” he says, “I’ve stolen your time.”  
   
“More than my time,” Steve says, easily, but he’s not joking. His hand tightens on Tony’s waist. “You okay, honey?”  
   
Tony lifts his chin, smiles up at him. “Sure, sweetie. Mr Kieran – “  
   
“Killian.”  
   
“ – was just telling me about his invention.”  
   
“If you can call it that,” Killian interrupts, standing. He brushes down his jacket, seemingly unnerved. “Captain,” he says, holding out his hand, “an honour, of course.”  
   
Steve frowns at it, then shakes, lacklustre. “My pleasure,” he replies, without much feeling. “I’m sure – whatever you’ve made is very impressive, Kieran.”  
   
“Killian.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Tony? Should we?”  
   
He slides his arm around Steve’s, curves his body there like it was built for it. “Interesting guy,” he murmurs, looking over his shoulder, awkwardly waving. Killian is still watching them  
   
“Creep,” Steve mutters in response.  
   
“Oh yeah?”  
   
“Yeah. Weren’t your instincts going – beep beep beep?”  
   
Tony laughs, incredulously, lets Steve pull out a chair at his table. “Beep beep beep?”  
   
“Yeah,” he says defensively, “you know. When you can just tell that someone is – I always think it’s like a beeping. A radar, you know?”  
   
Tony smiles at him. “That’s cute,” he says, cradling his drink. “I’m glad I know that about you. For the record – no beeping. He says he’s a scientist. Biological engineer, I think.”  
   
“And let me guess,” Steve snorts, “he wants to biologically engineer your insides. Or wait – no. He wants to show his big surprise, alone in his room. Or, he’s got something that only someone as _clever_ as you can figure out, and it’s hiding beneath the covers of his bed.”  
   
Tony hides his smile, looks down at his drink. “All three, I think, maybe.”  
   
Steve is laughing. “All three, huh?”  
   
He feels himself slide his hand across the table. “I’m… glad you’re here, you know. For what it’s worth. I’m glad you came.”  
   
“Well, I was glad to be invited,” Steve tells him, warmly. Tony thinks, _he’s so fucking handsome._ Strong nose, jaw, sloped cheeks. “Even if I am just your bit of rough.”  
   
Tony tsks, takes back his hand. “Stop it,” he teases. “You’re much more than that. You’re my – concubine. It’s practically an official position.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Steve raises a brow, leans back in his seat. “An official position, huh? I’m honoured.”  
   
“You should be.” Tony raises his chin, haughty. “I don’t often give out positions in my harem, so.”  
   
“What kind of bitch am I to be salivating at the thought,” Steve says, eyes crinkling. “You’re lucky I’m a certain kind of man, not every alpha would take that kind of talk,” he jokes.  
   
“You are a different breed,” Tony agrees, “which is good. It means, you won’t be mad when I fuck Killian.”  
   
Steve snorts. “Stark, as your most treasured concubine, I’m advising you on a hard pass.”  
   
“I don’t know. Sounds like he’s got something interesting.”  
   
“Yeah, like maybe some rope and a few whips. C’mon, Tony, no. There guy’s a creep, you wouldn’t really.”  
   
“No, sorry,” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, “you must have missed it – I’m _telling_ you what I’m going to do, not asking for permission.”  
   
He recoils, laughs. “You’re kidding.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony snorts, “you couldn’t actually stop me.”  
   
The smile slides off Steve’s face. “Why did you invite me here, Tony?” He asks, blunt.  
   
“Because. I thought you’d never seen Hong Kong, and I wanted – company.”  
   
“Company.” Steve mulls the word over. “I suppose I got the wrong impression, huh? When you invited me, away, to share single-bed room as your date.”  
   
“Jesus, Steve,” Tony mutters, covering his eyes, “not again.”  
   
“No, I don’t want to hear, _not again.”_ Steve is angry. Or at the very least, frustrated. And for the first time in a long time, it’s at him. “Tell me that when we’re at home, and tell me that when it’s work, tell me that – any other time, Tony, than when you’ve invited me, _just_ me, on a – personal vacation, to share your bed. I think --  “ and Steve chokes, swallows. “I think,” he says again, voice still hard, but more level, “I can expect some commitment, for four days, four days _only,_ so I don’t have to sleep on the couch and listen to you _fuck_ some other stud – “  
   
Tony doesn’t know what makes him say: “Oh, don’t worry. I’d go to his room, you’d still have the bed.”  
   
Steve’s eye twitches. “I’m here for you, Tony. You told me to come, for you. You _invited_ me.”  
   
“This is for work. If you invited me somewhere and had to leave for work, I wouldn’t be upset,” Tony says, rationally.  
   
“For wo – for _work?!”_ Steve shuts his eyes, jaw so tense it could snap. “That is not even remotely similar, and you know it.”  
   
“Why not? It’s how I make connections, Steve. I use what I have, I’ve – “ he holds up his hands, “I’ve always been incredibly honest about what I am – “  
   
“What you _are,”_ he snarls, and his eyes are red. “What you are, as if you can’t stop it, or control it, or you have no fucking choice at all, you’re just – put on this earth to let people use you, and instead of trying to change it, or fight against it, you have _rolled over_ and played their fucking game. And then, Tony, and this is the real clincher, sometimes _society_ isn’t to blame for your stupid fucking choices – you shouldn’t have invited me. Even if it’s only for four nights, you shouldn’t have done it, if you didn’t know you couldn’t bear to be with me, or that you might want to run off with some – scientist, or engineer, or whatever the fuck he calls himself.”  
   
“Fine,” Tony says, smoothly. “I shouldn’t have invited you. Happy?”  
   
“Peachy,” Steve spits. “And you know what, Tony? I’m not clever. I’m not some rich, educated, suave motherfucker, with a fancy degree in a made up specialism, and if that’s what you want – fine, by all means, take that. But don’t string me along,” he cries, shaking his head, “don’t – don’t invite me here, and then leave me, like I’m disposable, like I don’t matter, because _you_ matter to me. It’s not even about the sex, or the relationship, _fuck,_ it’s just about being a good person, Jesus, Tony – “  
   
He says nothing. He sips his drink.    
   
“ – you’re going to go through your life wondering what it is that’s stopped you from reaching out, and making any kind of meaningful connection with anyone, and you might tell yourself it’s because of what happened to you, and what you _are,_ and the fact that every aspect of life is conspired against you, but the truth is, Stark, that you’re selfish. You put yourself first. And you’re a good human, but you can’t fucking help yourself, and you don’t even try.”  
   
“Are you done.”  
   
“Yes, I’m done, I’m fucking _done._ We’re done, fine, finished, happy?” He stands, throws his jacket over his arm. “I’ll leave. Tonight. When you fuck him, don’t even think about coming back to our room, I don’t want to see you, and I don’t trust myself not to hurt him.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“Fine. Don’t trust him, Stark,” Steve warns, pointing his finger at him, furious. “I don’t trust him, he looks shady. If you want to go in there – “  
   
“I get it, Steve,” Tony says lazily, even though there’s a lump in his throat. “You can go now.”  
   
Steve straightens. “You always tell yourself you’re in control. But Killian came here tonight, for you, to further his own agenda. And for some reason – and I don’t know why, because I know you’re not stupid, but I do know you’re vulnerable – you’re going to play right into his hands. Well, good luck to you, Stark. Don’t come crawling back to me after it’s all said and done, I’m finished.”  
   
“Good.”  
   
“Good,” Steve agrees, and he rubs a hand across his eye. “Asshole,” he mutters, head bowed, shoving his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.  
   
Well. There’s that bridge burned.  
   
Tony doesn’t move, not at all, not for what feels like hours. The ice in his drink melts. He blinks, slowly. Swallows. He feels slightly vacant. He thinks Steve might have been crying, but that’s not his fault. He never pretended… he’s only doing what he…  
   
He drains his drink. The main hall is thronging with people, and Tony is late. He finds Killian entertaining a crowd. He seems surprised to see him. “Could I have a word?” He asks, and makes sure his lips touch his ear when he speaks.  
   
“Of course.” Killian leads him away. “My room, I presume?”  
   
Tony smiles, tight. “Sure,” he says, “you’re alpha.”  
   
Killian puts his hand on his waist, where Steve’s had been, before. He decides he doesn’t like it, and realises that even though he doesn’t like it, he isn’t going to tell Killian to stop.  
   
How far would he let Killian go before he told him no? How far would he let him push him?  
   
“Trust me,” Killian murmurs, “this will be unlike anything you’ve seen before.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony jokes, distantly, not really hearing himself, “are we still talking about your science project or something else?”  
   
Killian laughs. Tony is in control, though. This is his choice. He chose this. No one has forced him, put his name on a contract and held his hand while he signed, no one is tying him to a bed, no one is dangling a carrot in front of his…  
   
Tony has choice. He has _choices._  
   
They’re in front of Killian’s door. He’s fumbling for his key. “Actually,” Tony says, shaking his head, “God. I’m sorry. I just have – the worst headache.”  
   
“Don’t worry, I can make that better.”  
   
“Hah. Yeah, I mean – I get migraines. Awful, actually, I have medication, but it’s in my room. I think – you’re here tomorrow, right? We can table this for the morning – “  
   
Killian opens his door. “This will fix that,” he says, “trust me, Tony.”  
   
Tony doesn’t trust him, he realises. He keeps saying that, _trust me, trust me, trust me._ “No,” Tony says, firmly. “Not tonight. I’m sorry, Aldrich.”  
   
He looks at him. Frowns. “Stupid bitch,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, and gripping Tony by the throat.  
   
He throws him across the floor, slams the door behind him. Tony is choking, spluttering on the ground, hand on his neck. He knows: _danger!,_ and so reaches inside his pocket for his cell to send out the alarm –  
   
Killian kicks it from his hand, harmless. “I don’t think so,” he says, dropping to straddle Tony’s waist. “Naughty boy. No phone a friend, From Stark, that’s cheating.”  
   
“Get off me,” Tony wheezes, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”  
   
Killian rolls up his sleeves and wraps his hands around Tony’s throat. “We’ve met before, you know,” Killian says casually, squeezing. “1999. You don’t remember?”  
   
Tony’s vision is prickled with black dots. His head is spinning. He feels his eyes rolling back into his head.  
   
Killian slaps him; it _burns._ “Ah-ah,” he chides, “you’re not sleepy, power on through now, c’mon. I asked you a question, Tony. I said, do you remember me?”  
   
His hand is glowing red, like an ember, his fingers tipped almost molten white. Tony can feel the heat radiating off of him, fire, raw, bare flame. He shakes his head, best he can.  
   
“No,” Killian agrees, “of course you don’t, you stuck up little bitch. I offered this to you, you know. This power. I was going to make it yours. You ignored me. You _set me up.”_  
   
It’s a life or death situation, and Tony is genuinely terrified, but his overriding thought is what a desperate piece of shit this guy is. “I don’t tend to want to bone guys who stalk me,” he starts, and recoils back when Killian rests his palm a hair’s breadth from his face. He shuts his eyes, winces, breath coming in pants; this guy could easily scar him for life, just like that. And Tony is powerless.  
   
“Shh, shh, shh,” Killian is soothing, like you would a nervy horse. “It’s alright. You’re broken, Tony. More than you know. This,” he says, plucking open Tony’s silk dress shirt, tapping the arc reactor with his finger, “this makes you broken. Sick. And who knows what goes in that head of yours, huh?” He lightly caresses the side of Tony’s head with his burning hand, and the room smells like singed hairs.  
   
Tony tries to smack him away out of sheer panic; he must stink of it, distress and fear and pain. He thinks he might choke on vomit, heart jack-hammering uncomfortably against the casing. “Let me explain,” Killian says, drawing out a – syringe, from his jacket. “This is going to do one of two things: it’s going to react with your DNA, unsustainably. Cause rapid decay, perhaps some unpredictable mutations. You will die, painfully, but not before it explodes, killing you and everyone in this building that isn’t immune, understand?”  
   
He trails his burning finger tips down Tony’s chest, digs in his nails just below the reactor, and Tony screams; it hurts, it hurts worse than anything, being stabbed with knives made of fire. He arches and bucks and screams and screams and –  
   
“Shhh,” Killian is soothing again, holding his neutral hand over Tony’s lips. “That’s no good, Tony, I need time to explain. The other option, the _better_ option, I make you perfect. In every way. Physically and mentally.” He lowers his lips to Tony’s ear: “A clean slate,” he whispers. “A special dose, just for you. Ready to mould however I want you and – believe me, Tony, I _want_ you.”  
   
He dips his head, then, to the juncture of Tony’s neck and shoulder, lathers the area with saliva that feels like molten lava, bites at his gland with teeth that – that –  
   
Tony screams into the palm covering his mouth. He’s crying with the sheer pain of it, unending crescendos, over and over. The ever-sensitive skin behind Tony’s ear is subject to the hot, burning pad of Killian’s finger, held there, singing and scalding the skin from the muscle, frying him alive. He screams so hard he fears his voice will break, his lungs explode, his heart burst out of his chest. He thinks – he thinks the worst is over, when Killian takes his hand off his mouth, takes his burning nails away from his sensitive, secret spots.  
   
But then he’s wrapping his flamed hand around his neck, squeezing. And Tony’s – the skin of his throat catches fire while he chokes to death. He’s screaming in agony, but he can’t breathe. His hair is plastered to his head, his scent is raw fear, and Killian starts prepping the syringe with his teeth, splitting his fingers so he can place inject right into Tony’s throat.  
   
And he’s being burned alive.  
   
   
He comes back to himself, somewhere, sometime.  
   
There are scents he doesn’t recognise. New voices, too. They’re shouting over him, talking over him, things he can’t understand because words don’t sound real. He can hear an awful keening, like a wounded animal. He tries to move, but he’s strapped down, brow and shoulders and chest and arms and legs.  
   
He’s blinking up at the blurry shapes leaning over him, talking at him, about him, around him. He wants to recoil, hide from the noises and large, loud sounds. He wants to raise his hands so he can push them all away.  
   
Neck in a brace, he can’t move. He can only desperately strain his eyes, left, right, brow beading with sweat. There are no friendly faces. The ground beneath him is moving too fast.  
   
He hurts so bad, he wants to curl up and die.  
   
Someone holds his hand. More than that – they turn his wrist over, flatten his palm, draw a figure of 8 over and over. He can’t hear, he doesn’t know. His nose tells him – maybe it’s Steve. Scenting like lots of fight. It’s no good, him being so full of fight, he’ll want to fuck, probably. Or maybe he’s –  
   
Tamping that down. Holding back. So he can move his finger around Tony’s palm?  
   
And stroke his hair back from his head. Tony’s vision is still so blurry. He tries to blink to clear it; doesn’t work. Someone is stroking his hair, though, like it’s supposed to be calming. Tony won’t stop crying though. It’s not working. He still hurts so bad, he’s still so – he doesn’t know.  
   
“You’re alright,” Steve is saying roughly, “you’re going to be just fine, Tony.”  
   
“You need to step away now, Captain,” someone says, “I’m sorry, you’re just too big to fit, and we need to treat the burns.”  
   
Tony wants to say something. He wants to say, _stay with me,_ or, _I’m sorry,_ or, _thank you._ But he can barely open his eyes, swollen to slits, and his throat is full of blood, charred. He rasps. His lips mumble, but words don’t come clear.  
   
“I’m not – don’t. I’m not leaving him. I’m not – “  
   
Steve is grunting. Please, people say, please, Captain, don’t.  
   
They take his arm, gently fold it out, swab the skin with cotton. Tony is in so much pain. They prick him, tape it all up. He starts to slip away. He hears sirens. He hears blood in his ears. Paramedics speaking a language he doesn’t understand. And then Steve, who kisses his palm before he goes so far under he can’t tell sound and taste and sight apart from anything at all. The pain follows him. Eventually, blissfully, he blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big yikes. sorry for leaving this for a while. should be more regular again, hopefully. 
> 
> really want to know what u think about steve in this chapter. i feel like tony was abit of an ass -- i would have probably walked out, too.


	13. christmas

Tony avoids mirrors.  
   
He was never vain to begin with. Don’t let it be misconstrued for vanity. Being attractive is important. He got a lot done when he was attractive. It’s was his mask, a shield.  
   
The worst of the burns are on the right side of this throat, skin mottled, twisted. Vaguely, it’s the shape of a handprint, except when the skin began to melt it lost most of its shape. The left side has one thumb mark, where Killian had squeezed. It stretches up towards his jaw, ugly, unavoidable.  
   
No one’s going to begging for a contract any more.  
   
The erogenous zone behind his right ear has been burnt dead – Killian probably did that on purpose. Dirty slut, he probably deserved it anyway, right? He probably… it’s all…  
   
He’s going to fix it. All day and all night, he tinkers with extremis. The doctors have floated around cosmetic surgery, skin grafts, but Tony doesn’t want something that’ll make him look pitiable. He’s going to fix it entirely. He can. He will. In the meantime –  
   
Maybe he hasn’t left his apartment in three weeks. He knows what people will say, when they see him; they’ll apologise to his face, and then laugh behind his back. Tony has been having bad dreams, where he’s burnt and charred and naked on the floor, begging them for help, but instead they point and take pictures and drink champagne over his head.  
   
Tony used to hate when they touched him. He longs for it, now. No one will ever touch him again.  
   
He’s only been out of the hospital a few days. The first week, maybe two, he was so out of it – could barely string a sentence together, and still too ill to be moved. He’d had Steve. Steve had stayed, for all of it, even though Tony will admit he wasn’t the most appreciative. He had been angry, the times he hadn’t been dribbling; the pain made him tetchy, and he was still drinking his meals. It hurt too much to stretch the skin on his jaw talking, and eating. So mostly he’d let Steve read to him, while he stared at the ceiling, fluorescent lights blurring until he slipped away.  
   
Rhodey flew out to help get him home, although ‘home’ is a loose word – stateside is better. He’d spent a few more weeks in a rehab clinic in Houston where they taught him how to chew and swallow without drooling and aggravating the burns.  
   
Since then, since he got home, _really_ home, he hasn’t left. And that’s how it’s going to stay, until he fixes it. And if he doesn’t?  
   
Well, outside was never safe anyway.  
   
He spends the day on the couch. He has it all set up – tablet, and TV, laptop, bottled water, three blankets. He doesn’t often leave the couch. It’s fine, he’s just tired. He’s eats bagged chips off his chest and snorts at clips of fat dogs on youtube. He must fall asleep like that, drifting in and out, because he pills make him drowsy. When he slides back into consciousness, it’s darker, his fingers are still covered in stale cheese, and someone is requesting access to his apartment.  
   
“What’s’it?” Tony mumbles sitting up. “Who’s’it?”  
   
Jarvis says, Captain Rogers. He’s in the elevator. He’s brought a gift.  
   
Tony groans, hides his face in the pillow, regrets it when the bandage on his throat gets caught in the fibres. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, debating. He sniffs himself; disgusting. His hair is stuck up at odd angles, he’d had a nightmare and sweat through his shirt. “Doesn’t he know I’m busy?”  
   
“I don’t think he believes you, Sir.”  
   
“Well, tell him I’m…” Tony is trying to flatten his hair. He catches his reflection in the window. He wants to tear out his eyes.  
   
“I’ll take that as the affirmative,” Jarvis says, and Tony doesn’t correct him.  
   
He twists, looks over his shoulder at the elevator doors sliding open. Steve might have been waiting a long time. He’s anything if not persistent. He raises a hand, as if in greeting, and Tony watches his face for any sign of – disgust. But he probably rehearsed hiding it, earlier. Tony would.  
   
“Hey,” he says, dropping down the steps into the living area. “Didn’t know if you were still up.”  
   
Tony brings his knees up to his chest, stares pointedly in the other direction. Shrugs. “Yeah,” he says.  
   
An awkward silence. Steve clears his throat. “I brought you this,” he says, holding something out. Tony doesn’t look at him, but he does creep his eyes to the right to see the package.  
   
“Hah,” he deadpans. “Funny. What is it, some kind of sex thing?”  
   
He can practically hear the furrow on Steve’s brow. “No,” he says, “it’s a gift. A Christmas present.”  
   
“Great. I’ll put it under the tree, straight away.”  
   
“You could open it now.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, and doesn’t move.  
   
Steve seems to accept this. “You don’t have a tree,” he points out.  
   
“Didn’t see the point.”  
   
“How are you feeling? Other than… how’s the pain?”  
   
“Fine.” Tony rubs his nose, shrugs.  
   
“You eating enough?”  
   
“Yeah. Chips.” He kicks the packet with his toes.  
   
“You want me to rustle up something?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Okay.” Then, because Tony knows it’s coming: “We’re worried.”  
   
“I’m just tired.”  
   
“I get that,” Steve says, understanding, voice soft. “If you wanted… I can just make you something here. We don’t need anyone else, if you don’t want that.”  
   
Is he so obvious? Tony feels all that ugly rage bubbling up inside him. “I don’t need it,” he bites out, folding his body away from Steve.  
   
“Need what?”  
   
“Your pity. Or worse, your – what, you come here to say ‘I told you so?’”  
   
Steve stares at him. “No, Tony. No, I came because I miss you. And I was thinking about – the hospital, and other things. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually – “  
   
“Do you think,” Tony drips, poison, aware he’s being cruel but not able to stop it, “that I give a fuck about what you think?”  
   
Steve smells hurt. “I was going to ask what you were doing for Christmas,” he says, quietly.  
   
“Oh, I don’t know, Steve. How about I cook you some ham, and potatoes, and gravy, and I pull on some stockings and you light the fire and we play happy families. Would that be nice?”  
   
“Actually, I’m at the soup kitchen. I just wondered if anyone else was going to spend it with you.”  
   
That cuts him, even though he’s already been nothing but cruel. “Just go,” he mutters, tucking his chin against his knees, still not having looked him in the face. “Get out. Leave me alone.”  
   
“I – “ Steve sounds stiff. “I didn’t mean that as a – I didn’t mean anything by it, Tony.”  
   
“Aren’t I Stark now?”  
   
“No,” he says softly. “Not unless you want to be.”  
   
Pity. Pity, pity, pity. A guy like Steve – an alpha like that… Tony was already on thin ice, nearly ten years older, sloppy seconds. At least he’d been good in the sack. He had been pretty enough. “If you want to say ‘I told you so’,” he croaks, “you can save it. I already know. I know it every day.”  
   
Steve is silent. Then, he lifts his hand, squeezes Tony’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” he says, quietly. “Have a good Christmas, Tony.”  
   
He doesn’t reply. And he leaves the gift on the coffee table.  
   
After he’s heard his footsteps retreat, the elevator pull away, he reaches forward, picks it up. It’s wrapped in old newspaper, which is funny, even if Tony doesn’t know why. Tied with string. He pulls on it. An album? No. A sketchbook.  
   
He’s temped to throw it in the trash, but he wants to see it, like ripping off a band-aid. What’s the worst it could be? A framed photo, maybe, one of the awful ones Tony’s let him take of him drooling and bound with a tie, like he’s a puppy, a lamb for slaughter. He flips through, tries to find the lurid sketches of him, legs spread wide, or riding Steve’s cock, or lips spread obscenely with a gag.  
   
There aren’t any. There are lots of his eyes, and hands. A few of his – legs? His head, pillowed on his arms, eyes crinkled, and the slope of his back when he’s lying in bed.  
   
There’s one of him sleeping. Arm stretched out across Steve’s side, as if looking for company.  
   
Tony’s throat feels thick. His face twists, he throws the book at the wall and it smacks there, bounces back at the floor, lies with its pages open. “Fuck you,” he says, and then louder. “Fuck you! Fuck you! _Fuck you!”_  
   
He screams it, and then just screams. It’s embarrassingly pathetic. No one hears him. He doesn’t even feel better for it.  
   
 _Ugly bitch,_ he hears inside his head, snide. _Stupid ugly bitch. Who would ever want you now? Serves you right._  
   
Tony thinks, Steve probably isn’t going to be drawing him anymore. It hurts to remember he was once wanted, an object of attraction, something that _should_ be put down on paper, recorded. Such was his fucking beauty.  
   
   
The lipstick is smeared. He’d tried to paint it, neat, onto his lips; it was wobbly, and then the repetition of it, the drag of thick wax across his skin felt good, and he got… distracted. He knows how to do it the way they like it, they taught him. They had wanted him in pretty make-up and silk panties and lace suspenders. He can do everything that he needs to do.  
   
He knows where Steve is doing Soup. At the soup kitchen. Steve is – he’s a good guy. So he volunteers on Christmas to help give out food and stuff. Tony isn’t a good guy, but no one’s ever really minded, so he doesn’t care. You don’t need to be good when you look as good as Tony.  
   
He wasn’t invited. Steve probably doesn’t want him there. He’s maybe even got some pretty young thing, some omega, who goes to church and is blonde and helps out with the homeless. Tony builds _homes_ for the homeless, that’s basically better than Steve’s new omega. If there is a new omega. He doesn’t know. He thinks there probably is.  
   
He wasn’t invited. Steve didn’t invite him. He’d waited before even asking him to spend the evening, out of pity. Tony doesn’t want pity, oh no. It’s cold. He’s not wearing a coat. He doesn’t want pity. He’s going to show Steve everything that he can bring to the table, yes he will. He’s --  
   
Cold. He realises it’s cold, and that there’s snow in his hair, stuck in his shoes. He’s shivering, pushing through the line. He thinks this is the right place. The first one thought _he_ was homeless.  
   
He lands in front of him, ignores the whistling and the complaints from the people he just cut in front of. “Steve,” he says happily, rubbing circulation back into his arms. “I made it.”  
   
Steve stares at him, in-between ladling stew from a large metal vat into a bowl. “You’re here,” he says, betraying neither positive or negative emotion.  
   
“I’m here,” Tony says, aware he sounds a hint manic. “Ready to – to get my soup on.”  
   
Steve calmly puts down his ladle, pats his hands down on his apron. “Excuse me,” he says quietly to the woman at the end of the table, and she takes over his spot.  
   
He’s holding Tony’s arm, pulling him away, into a back room. “You’re dressed like a whore,” he says, bluntly.  
   
“You don’t like it?” Tony asks, batting his lashes. “It’s my present to you.”  
   
Steve’s lips are a line. “You can’t do this here.”  
   
“But I want to help.”  
   
“No, you don’t. Did you do your makeup in the back of a spoon? You look like – Jesus,” he scoffs, “you look like you’re trying to turn tricks. Worse than that – you realise you look like a racoon, right?”  
   
Tony scrubs self-consciously at his eye, and Steve drags down his hand, snaps at him. “Stop that,” he says, “you’re making it worse.”  
   
“You don’t like it?” He slurs.  
   
Steve’s face is hard. “Do you know – “ he lowers his voice, “how many people _saw_ you, out there? Those are alphas, Tony, and not all of them are _nice.”_  
   
“Don’t worry about them, I can break any of their necks, easy,” Tony says, unsteady on his feet.  
   
“Has it occurred to you that maybe I don’t want that? It’s Christmas, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah, well…” he trails off. He’s cold, he realises suddenly. The shirt is too thin, and he hasn’t got a coat.  
   
“How did you get here?” Steve presses. “For the love of God, don’t tell me you drove.”  
   
“No, I – I…” How did he get here? “I think I walked,” he says, frowning.  
   
“You walked.”  
   
“Yeah, it’s – it’s not far, I guess.”  
   
“It’s 20 degrees out. It’s snowing.”  
   
Tony’s brain is buzzing. “I thought,” he says, “I thought you might want to fuck me.”  
   
He tries again, looking up at him through lashes, shifting apart his legs. Steve doesn’t look turned on; he looks disgusted.  
   
Shame. Hot shame, not good, all down his back. He has to duck his gaze, swallow hard, tuck his shoulders against his neck. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I thought – I thought – “  
   
“You didn’t think. How much did you have to drink?”  
   
Tony doesn’t honestly know. He’s been drinking for three days straight, and the days and nights have blurred. He shrugs.  
   
“Wait here,” Steve says, coldly. The carrier bag crinkles in his grip. He leaves, and Tony tries to shake his head free of whatever’s making it fuzzy.  
   
When Steve comes back, he’s not wearing the apron. “C’mon,” he says, pulling his coat off of a hook, “wear this.”  
   
“I’m not cold,” he slurs, lying.  
   
“Okay. But you’re not leaving here dressed like that.”  
   
“You sound like my dad,” Tony laughs, but Steve doesn’t smile. His coat is extra warm, extra thick, and extra big. It dwarfs him.  
   
He flags down a cab, bundles Tony into the back. He meets the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. What is he looking at, Tony wonders? The disfigured throat, scarred, not-worth-bearing, no one wants to see that ugly thing bent back over pillows, or the smeared make-up, the too-red lipstick drawn over his lips instead of on them? The thin fish-net thing he’s wearing over bare skin, his unwashed hair, racoon-eyes and sweaty skin. “What are you looking at?” Tony spits, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says quietly.  
   
“Yeah, you fucking look away,” he’s saying, voice loud in his ears, ugly, just like him. “Can’t fucking look me in the eyes now, can you, you fucking beta – “  
   
“ _Tony.”_  
   
He’s slid his hand onto Tony’s nape, holding him. Firm. Not quite to the point of pain, but – a warning.  
   
Tony stops talking. He shuts his eyes. Steve rewards his silence with a stroke from his thumb.  
   
He keeps petting him, all the way home. By the end, Tony feels like he’s been melted in acid and doped with opiates for the pain. Like he’s sagging, sloughing away. “I’m sorry,” he says to the driver, when Steve urges him out of the cab. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, you didn’t deserve it.”  
   
Steve talks to the driver, unfolds a thick wad of fifty-dollar bills. Bribe money, Christmas money. A thank you, for dealing with Tony’s bad behaviour. “I’m sorry,” Tony says, blinking snow out of his eyes while Steve tugs him away, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”  
   
“Stop apologising. Keep your head down. No – down, Tony, that’s it. Here,” he covers his shoulders with his arm, urges him to tuck his face into his chest. “We’re passing reception, just – stay like this till we’re in the elevator, okay?”  
   
Steve’s gait is almost too fast for him to keep up. He hears him wish the doorman a merry Christmas. In the elevator, there’s silence. Until Steve asks, quietly:  
   
“Tony, are you okay?”  
   
“I’m fine,” he wheezes, turns to smile at him, eyes watery. “If you want me, I’ll be in bed.” He feels his head go hazy. “I can be,” he tries again, avoiding his reflection in the mirror, “I can be… so good, for you. Steve.”  
   
“Tony…”  
   
“I can be whatever you want me,” he says woodenly. “I can be… I can…”  
   
He feels himself listing to the side. Steve curses, catches him before he hit his head on the metal railing. “You’re not well,” he frets, hand to his brow, “you’ve got a fever, I can just tell.”  
   
Tony wants to say, _no fever,_ but he feels good in Steve’s arms. “Maybe a little,” he slurs, letting his head roll against his arms.  
   
“I asked, are you okay? When was the last time you changed your dressing? Have you been taking your pills?”  
   
“Oh yeah,” Tony agrees, “I took all the pills.”  
   
Steve – hooks his arms underneath his legs, lifts him up bodily. He doesn’t even ask if Tony can walk. “Keep your eyes open for me,” he says. “Talk to me.”  
   
“You smell like soup.”  
   
“Oh yeah? And you smell like…” Steve trails off. “Perfume,” he lies.  
   
Tony smells like shit and he knows it. He lets Steve dump him on the couch, sit on the coffee table. If he sees his gift on the floor, half opened, pages crumpled, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he frowns at the carrier bag in Tony’s hands, prises it from his fingers.  
   
He looks inside, pulls out the gag. “Tony,” he asks quietly, “did you want me to fuck you in the soup kitchen?”  
   
Tony blinks. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.  
   
Steve dumps the bag in the trash, gag and all. “Your neck needs dressing,” he says. “How long since you changed the bandage?”  
   
“A few – a couple days, I guess.” Tony hasn’t left his bed in a while. Not since that night, with the drawings.  
   
“You took your painkillers?” Steve asks.  
   
Tony nods. Then: “maybe too many,” he blurts.  
   
“How many?”  
   
Tony can’t remember. “Three?”  
   
Steve sits him at the island table, sets a glass of water in front of him, and makes some calls. He can hear his voice, measured, calm. “… three. Yes, three. Is that bad? No, I think he just misjudged. The pain was worse this morning. He’s fine, totally fine, he just mentioned – okay. I’ll do that, then. I’ll make sure. Thank you, thanks.”  
   
Steve is back. “C’mon,” he urges, tapping Tony’s shoulder, “let’s go to the bathroom.”  
   
“Am I in trouble?”  
   
“No. Can you make yourself sick?”  
   
“Do I have to?”  
   
“No. It would just be better if you did.”  
   
Steve puts an arm around Tony’s belly, so he can lean against it, and then puts two fingers down Tony’s throat. It’s not sexy. Gently, he coaxes him to throw up into the toilet bowl, pushes his hair back from his head, and then passes him a glass of water.  
   
“We should take off the make-up,” he says, conciliatory. “Here.” He helps him sit on the edge of the bath, balances him with a hand to the shoulder. “Is there – is there something I should use? To take it off better?”  
   
“There are pads,” Tony tells him, blinking, spaced out. “In the bottom drawer.”  
   
Steve gently wipes the soft cotton against his eyes. “Keep them shut,” he says quietly. “Head back. That’s it.” He pushes the pad against his skin, drags it slowly. And again. Repetitive motion.  
   
“I didn’t know you wore makeup,” he says, reservedly, discarding the wipe and picking up a new one.  
   
“Do you like it?” Tony asks, opening his eyes.  
   
“Like this? No.” And Steve smiles, because he’s made a joke – it’s funny, because Tony didn’t do it properly. It’s just a joke. Tony laughs, too, but maybe later than he should of, and too loudly, because Steve looks concerned. “I used to like it,” he continues, delicately holding Tony’s chin. “I used to like it when the bitches – I mean, the boys would wear it. But I don’t think masculine omegas really use it, anymore.”  
   
“Frowned upon,” Tony agrees, “but I’ve always been eccentric.”  
   
“Well, then I like it,” Steve tells him warmly. He finishes clearing the worst of it of off his skin, and then urges him to the bedroom, sits him on the bed. “Where do you keep the bandages?”  
   
Tony points. He shuts his eyes. He hates this. It’s pathetic, and childish, but he hates changing the dressing.  
   
Steve is gentle, more gentle than he’s ever seen him. He carefully picks at the tape and peels back the thick wad that covers the worst portion, where Killian’s palm had pressed against the front of his throat. The fingers don’t get bandaged anymore – all they need is cream. But here, in the worst part, skin was melted, deadened. Any more, and it would have burnt his throat out of him.  
   
Tony looks away, down, desperately anywhere that’s not Steve, so he doesn’t have to see pity on his face. “It’s bad,” he croaks.  
   
It smells. The old bandage is sticky with blood and pus and secretions. It’s hideous. He’s hideous. Steve doesn’t lie and say, ‘no’, or ‘you’re beautiful’; he says: “For now.”  
   
He looks up, meets Tony’s eyes. “Oh, no,” he says, putting down the salve, “oh no, Tony, no, don’t cry. Hey, it’s alright – does it hurt? I’m sorry, it’ll be over soon, please don’t cry.” He buffs Tony’s eyes with his sleeve. The truth is, the worst of it doesn’t hurt – the nerves are dead, anyway. The fringes can get pretty bad, irritated and raw, but it’s not the pain.  
   
“Can I sit with you, after?” He asks, vacantly, tears on his cheeks, even though he doesn’t remember when he started crying. “I don’t feel well. I don’t feel myself.”  
   
“Yeah, Tony. Yeah, of course. Here,” he says, unwinding the dressing, “talk to me,” he urges, wrapping the fresh bandage around his throat.  
   
“You don’t like it when I talk,” Tony says. It’s not angry, or vicious – he believes it. “That’s why I brought the gag.”  
   
Steve’s eyes flick to his, and away again. “I like it when you talk,” he says quietly, fiddling with something in the kit. “Talk to me about something.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “Uh,” he manages, mind blank. “I was real – it hurt, this morning. I got confused, I got the days mixed up. That’s why I took too many.”  
   
“I believe you,” Steve says, and Tony feels relieved. Steve believes him. There won’t be any trips to psychs who peer into his head, and they won’t put him on some kind of watch, or send him to rehab. It was just a mistake, and Steve believes it.  
   
“And then I saw the date today and I just – I just thought I’d come and help.”  
   
“Why did you wear these clothes?” He asks, picking at the fishnet on Tony’s chest.  
   
“I didn’t want you to turn me away,” Tony whispers. “I don’t want to be alone.”  
   
“You said you didn’t want to – that you weren’t ready. To be physical.”  
   
“I wasn’t lonely then,” Tony says honestly. “I was lonely this morning.”  
   
Steve is quiet. He rolls up the bandage, zips up the kit. “Please don’t – make yourself do those things. Don’t use yourself that way.”  
   
He claps his hands over his head. “I ruined it,” he says, “I’ve ruined everything. Myself, and you, and Christmas, and – and – “  
   
“It’s okay, Tony.”  
   
“It’s not. I ruined – soup day.”  
   
“Can I let you in on a secret?”  
   
Tony nods, quickly. He would like to be a part of one of Steve’s secrets.  
   
“I hate soup kitchens,” he admits. “I like helping, I don’t mind the work but – even I hate them, okay? So you practically saved me.”  
   
“I did, really?”  
   
“You did,” Steve agrees, cupping the side of his head.  
   
Tony’s eyes blurring again, not with tears, more with – drugs. He feels his face twitch. “I don’t – feel great. I don’t feel good, I – “  
   
He throws up again, more alcohol, except Steve is crouching in front of him so most it – oh no. He hears him sigh, sees him shut his eyes. _Irritation,_ Tony can scent, _annoyed, angry._ He wants to say, _I’m sorry,_ but his stomach contracts and he can’t stop himself, again.  
   
Steve is pulling off his fishnet sweater, unbuttoning the leather pants. “C’mon,” he urges gently, “let’s get some proper clothes.”  
   
Tony’s head feels fuzzy. He doesn’t really remember how he ends up in the bed, blinking slowly, drooling into the pillow. “I’m gonna make it better,” he hears himself say, “with Extremis. I’m going to make myself pretty again.”  
   
Steve has a towel slung around his neck. “Just to fix yourself?” He asks. “Just to heal the burns?”  
   
“Heal everything. Heart and – and body. All the scars, everything.”  
   
Steve is quiet. He sits on the side of the bed. “Well,” he says, reaching down to pull the blanket higher over Tony’s chest, “it would be hypocritical of me to say not to.”  
   
He rolls onto his side, blinks at him. “I’m going to make myself perfect,” he whispers. “I’m going to – to take off twenty years.”  
   
“Don’t change yourself too much, alright? I want to be able to recognise you.”  
   
Tony eyelids are drooping. “Steve – do you think I’m pretty?”  
   
Steve frowns. He’s slowly stroking Tony’s leg under the blanket. “Sure, Tony. Of course I do, how could I not?”  
   
“They all said that. They all say it. You know I was fifteen? And he was sixty-four.”  
   
“Tony, I – “  
   
Tony is crying again, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even realise it until the pillow beneath him is wet. It’s just – it’s really important to him, that he gets all their names out there. “I’m always pretty,” he says, “I never wanted any of them, though. I wanted to build cars. And I begged Dad not to send me away. He was sixty-four, and I didn’t want it. I wished I was ugly, because he never would have seen me at that party and asked Dad to have me. But then I got sloppy. I relied on it. And now what? Now I have nothing. I’m nothing now.”  
   
“Did he hurt you?”  
   
Tony sobs. “I had to do it. I don’t want to do it. Sometimes it hurts so bad – like a knife. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I was alpha, or beta. No one’s going to look at me anymore, not at all. They don’t listen to me because I’m me, it’s because I’m pretty, it’s always been that way. I don’t want – I’m – “  
   
His throat hurts, the burn raw and pulsing. “I want a painkiller,” he chatters, numbly, “I’m tired. Give them to me.”  
   
“I can’t, Tony,” Steve soothes. “Here, shuffle.” He’s sliding under the covers, gently letting Tony lower his head onto his chest. “I can help. It’s fine. I know it hurts, but first you have to just shut your eyes, and it’ll get better.”  
   
“I want the meds,” Tony asks, plaintively, “I want a drink, I’m not tired.”  
   
“You just said you were tired,” Steve points out, and Tony screams his protestations, and curses, and sobs, into his chest.  
   
He strokes the soft skin behind his good ear, wraps his arms around his shoulders so he’s held safe and tight, tucked properly into the warmth of his body. “It’s okay,” he tells him, like that means something. “You’re alright, sweetheart.” His lips brush Tony’s brow.  
   
His head hurts, all of him is so heavy. “Thank you, Steve,” he says, frowning. “I’m sorry.”  
   
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Steve says roughly, clearing his throat. “You’ve been there for me, Tony. You’ve, uh. Given me a home. So, I’m here for you now. Whenever you need me.”  
   
That’s reassuring. Steve is stroking his skin. “I love having you like this,” Tony hears himself say, voice distant, slipping into sleep. “It’s all I want.”  
   
“To have me?”  
   
“To have this,” he thinks he might say.  
   
“For what it’s worth, Tony, I – I love you. Any way. All ways.”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. He smacks his lips, yawns. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he mumbles. And slips into sleep.  
   
   
After, he feels like he was hit by a truck. He wakes up alone, bandages fresh, in clean sleep-clothes. There’s a tall glass of water and an aspirin by his bed. He frowns, groans – he’s told, it’s the 26th. Tony can’t remember… he can’t remember anything after the 23rd. Steve. Steve, and his gift, and then –  
   
Vague recollection of pills, and booze. Some snow? Lipstick, but he doesn’t know why. “God,” he mutters, hating himself. He can guess who’s behind water. “Jarvis,” he croaks, “where’s Steve?”  
   
Steve is in the lounge, dressed, bags at his feet. It’s all very – impermanent. Planned. Like he was waiting for Tony just to wake up.  
   
“Steve,” Tony blinks, rubbing at his face, bleary. “Sorry, I was – asleep.”  
   
“Good,” Steve nods, stiffly. “I think you needed it.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Did I? I don’t – I don’t remember…”  
   
Steve stares at him. And then: “It was nothing,” he says, “you said you were tired, is all.”  
   
“Did I sleep through Christmas?”  
   
“Must have. But like I say, you probably needed it.”  
   
Tony’s eyes travel down to the suitcase and canvas bag at his feet. “You’re packed,” he says.  
   
“I’m leaving,” Steve replies.  
   
“I see that.”  
   
“D.C. Pierce has a new command set up for me at the Triskelion. Full-time.”  
   
Tony nods. “That makes sense,” he says, “I’m sure you’ll do good work there.”  
   
Steve holds out a hand. “It was nice – working with you,” he says pointedly. “These past months. Year, I guess. It was nice to get to know you better.”  
   
“The same, Captain,” Tony smiles sharply. “Keep in touch.”  
   
Steve salutes with two fingers. Tony knows, he won’t keep in touch. They never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, comments are loved. should probably say -- this does have a happy ending. they start to sort themselves out in the next couple chapters. there's just some angst to crawl through first.
> 
> i've written some snippets of tony's backstory i.e. his first few contracts if anyone is interested in reading, let me know. ur thoughts on how their relationship -- especially steve -- is are v helpful/motivating! such interesting points in comments last time!


	14. rut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter in the end notes = read if uncomfortable with themes of sexual coercion / non-consensual drug use

“God, From Stark,” the alpha moans, “you’re just so – ugh, Tony. Can I call you Tony?”  
   
“Sure,” Tony says, resting his hand on his chin, wincing slightly when he fucks more into his wall than his channel. He thinks this was probably a mistake. He thinks, his therapist is going to kill him.  
   
“Tony,” the alpha breathes, fucking into him shallowly. “Take it, Tony, you beautiful bitch. Yes, yes – do you like it? Do you like me inside you, Tony?“  
   
Tony sighs. He rests his head on his hands, debates whether he should tell the guy to just stop or whether it’s worse to spare his feelings. “Uh,” he frowns, “oh, yeah. It feels good, sweetie.”  
   
“Yes,” he groans, thrusting. He braces his hand on Tony’s back, as if building up to something big, and then just – pulls out, and back in. “You feel so good, baby. So good. Such a tight fucking hole – “  
   
Jesus. Maybe, he can sleep. Maybe he can just shut his eyes and catch a few and pretend he passed out from intense orgasm. The guy would probably believe it, such is his confidence in his skill.  
   
“Uh huh,” Tony agrees, drowsily. “Yeah, you, uh – fuck my tight hole, I guess.”  
   
“What?” The alpha pulls up short.  
   
“You finished?”  
   
“No, you said – are you into this?”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes, wiggles his ass. “Sure, sweetie. I love the feel of you.”  
   
“It’s just – it’s just you don’t sound so enthusiastic.”  
   
Tony frowns; his phone is buzzing on the bedside table. “You – you keep at it, sport,” he says, reaching for it. Unknown number. Calling at 2AM on a Sunday. Tony doesn’t just _give out_ his number; he doesn’t just _get_ calls.  
   
Which means, it will not be anything good.  
   
“Are you going to – take a call?”  
   
“No no, don’t worry. You can keep going, sweetie, you’re not bothering me.” Tony slides answer, frowns. “Hello?”  
   
“From Stark. A bad time, I presume?”  
   
“It’s 2AM. Who is this?”  
   
“So you know, it’s an emergency.”  
   
“I asked, who is?”  
   
The – man, on the line sighs. “Ross,” he says, and then, when he must realise that isn’t helpful: “General Ross. We met, a few years back. You bought a bar.”  
   
Tony catalogues. Bruce is in Taiwan, he’s sure of it – in fact, they spoke this morning, and he’d been talking about udon noodles. Nothing pressing, or military related. “What the fuck is this?” He asks  
   
“It’s urgent.”  
   
“How urgent?”  
   
“It’s the Captain.”  
   
Tony pulls himself off the alpha’s dick, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Is it – I mean, is he – “  
   
“Oh, God, alive,” Ross quickly reassures, apparently aware of Tony’s mild panic. “Nothing like that, no. He got himself into a – well, it’s hard to explain. We need your help.”  
   
The alpha is resting his chin on Tony’s shoulder, kissing a line up his neck. Tony bats him away. “Mechanical?” He prompts.  
   
“No. Like I said, it’s something you need to see. He – there was a drug.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony is starting to pull on pants one-handed. “He’ll metabolise it,” he says, fairly confident.  
   
“No. It was built for his structure. Look, I really can’t be giving away this kind of information over an insecure line – please. Don’t wait around, just take a suit. Helicarrier, I’m having coordinates patched over now.”  
   
The alpha is nuzzling Tony’s ear. “Sweetie,” he says, “is it important? Can it wait?”  
   
Tony turns on him, abruptly. “Who the fuck are you?” He asks, flatly. “Take a hint, okay? Fucking hell, if you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the cops.”  
   
He has to dress in the clothes he was wearing before Unnamed Alpha #1 tried to rip them off him. He thinks, Steve is hurt? Steve is hurt, and they need him. For what? Jesus, he’s thinking – the last rites. Some kind of chemical reaction? Burns. What if he’s burnt? What if it’s _radiation?_ Why would they want him? Why would they need him? Built for his structure, what does mean? Was it targeted, an assassination attempt, why is _Ross_ in charge at all –  
   
“The general says you should bring the suit,” Maria Hill tells him, arms crossed. She looks exhausted, her hair pushed back with a band rather than neatly clipped at her nape. “Oh – and coffee,” she adds, holding it out.  
   
“Thanks,” Tony says, only mildly suspicious. The helicarrier is manned by a ghost crew, practically – what the hell went on here? “Where is he? Is he – “  
   
“He was raiding a base,” Hill starts to fill him in, blisteringly efficient. “Turns out, they had human livestock – if you understand what I mean.”  
   
Tony winces, retracts his helmet. “Jesus, Hill – you can’t think of a better way to say that?”  
   
“Alphas and omega. Some kind of medical testing facility. It was going well, fairly routine – anyway, one of the techs slipped some of the drug they were testing into the air supply. Next thing you know, every alpha on our team goes down.”  
   
Tony stares. “The drug,” he says, slowly, “it – “  
   
“Fight. We’re trying to break down the chemical components now,” Hill’s lips twist, pausing to let Tony through a doorway, “point is, it triggers extreme fight response. _Extreme._ And along with that…”  
   
“Rut,” Tony hears himself say. “So, those alphas – all in rut, and then – “ he winces. “The omegas.”  
   
“The omegas,” Hill agrees. “Cap tried to stop them. The men, I mean. And he did. But he was in fight,” she says pointedly.  
   
“He didn’t,” Tony states, not wanting to know the answer.  
   
“We’ve lost men,” she tells him, bluntly. “Not Cap’s fault – no one’s blaming him. What was he supposed to do, let them tear those poor things apart?”  
   
“When was this? Why did no one tell me – “  
   
“Three days ago.”  
   
“Three – _three?!_ You didn’t think this was something I should know – “  
   
“And what would you have done?” She demands.  
   
“I don’t know. What do you need me for now?”  
   
“The General’s inside,” she answers instead, buzzing her pass on the door. “I’m sure he’ll explain.”  
   
It’s not just Ross. Two beta men in uniform, an older alpha woman with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “Oh great,” Tony says, mouth twisting. “The whole gang is here.”  
   
“From Stark,” Ross greets, dourly. He’s holding a glass of scotch.  
   
“What is this, a party?”  
   
“It’s been a long few days, actually,” Ross close-enough sneers at him, downing his drink. “We lost men.”  
   
“Don’t pretend you care. Where’s Pierce?”  
   
“Tony,” he says, materialising at his side, flanked by Fury and Rumlow. “Thank God. I knew you would come.”  
   
“You say Steve, I ask how high.”  
   
“Well, your loyalty is charming, but really – “ Pierce is leaning forward, glaring at Ross, “me and the general have been over this, and we agreed your _services,”_ he spits, pointedly, “won’t be needed.”  
   
“Secretary – “ Ross starts.  
   
“My services?”  
   
Pierce stares at him. Then, at Ross. “You haven’t told him?” He demands.  
   
“These things take delicacy, Secretary. It’s a matter of – “  
   
“He wants you to go in there,” Pierce tell him. “With Cap. And he wants you to let him – well. You understand, I’m sure.”  
   
They want Steve to work through his rut, the natural way. The most efficient way. And they know Tony’s the only omega that perfect mix of slutty, dumb, and bold to actually do it.  
   
   
“I assume he hasn’t told you anything about the risk?” Pierce continues. “He hasn’t told you what that drug does to an alpha, I presume. What happens when you throw in an O, leave them to be – Tony, if he was anyone else, and you were willing, I’d okay it. But he’s stronger than ten men. There’s every chance he’ll rip you apart.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “Alright,” he says, “just – slow down, all of you, I already have a headache. Fury,” he frowns, “what about you? I’m sure you have an opinion.”  
   
Fury crosses his arms. “If I were making the decisions,” he says, shortly, “I’d have kept you as far away from this place as possible.”  
   
“But you’re not making the decisions,” Ross sneers, “and isn’t that great?”  
   
“Four men dead and our Captain laid out for three days, and you’re sitting there patting yourself on the back for a job well done?” Nick snorts, incredulous. “Like hell, this is the last time we ever take you on your _intelligence –_ “  
   
“I can’t believe it’s been three days. I can’t believe you’ve just – not told me. Or anyone. Is he pain? How bad?” Tony feels himself fretting, keeps him clamped down.  
   
“He’s in pain,” Pierce tells him, gently, like he’s trying to soften the blow.  
   
Tony jerks his chin. “What do you think?” He asks. “Is it worth it?”  
   
“I think, if anyone could control him, it would be you,” he says quietly. “But, the risk. You’re not capable of holding him off on your own on a good day, let alone when he’s like this.”  
   
“He’ll have the suit,” Ross says, “we’ll make sure it’s in there, any funny business and it’ll knock him flat on his back, won’t it, Stark?”  
   
Tony realises he’s been rubbing at his throat, where the burnt, mottled skin used to be. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you think we have. We haven’t – I’ve barely seen him in months.”  
   
“I know exactly what kind of relationship you have. Or had, at least,” Ross says, snidely. “You’ve had worse, Stark. We know you have experience.”  
   
Tony says nothing. Pierce squeezes his arm. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “there’s no reason for you to feel comfortable doing this, Tony. I told you,” he turns to Ross, “you fucking imbecile, he’s not a puppet, you can’t just pull his strings and expect him to do whatever fucked up, absurdist scheme you’ve cooked up in that office you call a headquarter.”  
   
“Jesus,” Fury mutters, “Secretary – are you feeling okay?”  
   
Pierce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Apologies,” he waves his hand, “I’m tired, we’re all tired. I just don’t appreciate this – brigading. Tony, I’m telling you straight – don’t let this man talk you into anything, understand? He’s outnumbered, we have your back, and – “ he reaches out, grips his shoulder, meets his eyes, intently, “I’m not going to let anyone force you to do anything, do you understand?”  
   
Pierce smells like lemons and shoe polish. Tony – grips his hand. “It’s fine, Alexander,” he hears himself say, only realising after he’d skipped formality and gone straight to the first name basis. “I trust you.”  
   
“Do you?” Pierce presses.  
   
“Will you be honest with me?” Tony answers.  
   
“Anything.”  
   
“Tell me, what happens if I don’t go in there?”  
   
Pierce pulls back his hand. His eyes flick to Fury’s, then back to Tony. “The most effective way to neutralise the drug is the natural way,” he says, carefully.  
   
“And if we don’t?”  
   
“It burns him from the inside out,” Ross interrupts. “You know this, I know it. I don’t have a horse in the race, except for the fact this happened under my watch. It probably won’t kill him,” he concedes, “no doubt, the serum’s trying to counteract it. But he’s in for a hellish few weeks.”  
   
It’s almost 3AM. They’re crowding him, all of them, with their broad shoulders and scenting like fight. Tony works his jaw. “I’m not going to let him suffer,” he tells Pierce.  
   
“No,” he seems to agree, reluctantly. “Of course you’re not.”  
   
“Alex, if he doesn’t want to…” Fury mutters, heavily.  
   
“Stark, if you don’t want to, that’s fine,” Pierce tells him again. “We’ll find someone else. We have Os on retainer for this exact situation of course, but – he’s so strong. And they won’t have suits.” Pierce sighs. “But I suppose, needs must. We’ll try our best, make sure they don’t come in harms way. We’ll try.”  
   
“He asked for you,” Ross tells him, directly. “He’s asked for you. Mr Secretary told me, he calls your name. Secretary Pierce isn’t telling you the whole truth, Stark.”  
   
Tony watches Fury purse his lips, stubbornly. He’s not happy. He doesn’t like that Ross has given away that information. “My name, huh,” Tony says, flatly.  
   
Pierce holds up his hands. “Tony, I – don’t want you coerced into something you wouldn’t do if you didn’t feel responsible. You have no reason to. He knew the risks going in, we all did, it’s not your job to suffer the consequences.”  
   
Steve has been calling his name.  
   
“Where is he?” Tony asks, resigned, already pulling at his top button.  
   
“Here,” Fury says, “if we could – maybe, the alpha’s should stay in this room.” He clearly unhappy, taking Tony’s shoulders, pushing him through the door into the observation room.  
   
Steve is behind the glass. He’s curled in the corner, naked, bruised, bloodied, more vulnerable than Tony’s ever known him. “Oh,” he breathes, “my poor Cap. What the hell have they done to you?”  
   
“Stark.”  
   
Tony doesn’t turn around. He presses his hand to the glass.  
   
“Stark,” Fury says sharply, taking his arm. “ _Tony._ You don’t have to do this.”  
   
“Aww, it’s sweet of you to care, Nicky. But I’ll be just fine.”  
   
“I’m not sure you know what you’re getting in to.”  
   
“Are you trying to suggest that Pierce would seriously risk my neck over this?”  
   
“Of course not,” Fury scoffs, “just – that he might be mistaken. He’s in rut, Stark, he – well, he could rip you in half,” he says, bluntly. “There’s no such thing as no.”  
   
“Yeah, we never had a safeword anyway.”  
   
“I didn’t ask, but okay. You must know this is more than that.” Fury narrows his eyes, scents him, just slightly; “you do know that. You’re nervous.”  
   
“Because I’m trying to take off my pants and you’re holding my arm like you want to tear it off,” Tony snaps. “Yeah, I’m nervous to fuck a guy in front of the top brass, who would have thought.”  
   
“You don’t _have_ to. I’m giving you an out. You just had heart surgery, we’ll tell them you can’t take it – “  
   
“Extremis covered that, but thanks.”  
   
“He won’t die, you know that, don’t you? Don’t listen to whatever that ass was saying, he’s just trying to cover his back. This happened on his watch, there’s no way he’ll get Secretary of State with this under his belt, not if Pierce has anything to do with it.”  
   
Tony wrenches back his wrist. “I’m a big boy, Nick. I can make my own decisions.”  
   
“I don’t think you’re making the right decision,” Fury presses. “Jesus, Stark, do you think I want him to suffer? I’m telling you, this is too much risk. Stark. I don’t want you hurt.”  
   
Tony picks at the buttons of his shirt, purposefully drops it off his shoulders. “He asked for me, Nick,” he tells him, plaintively. “What am I supposed to do?”  
   
“He wouldn’t be happy. If you make this choice, he won’t be happy.”  
   
Tony doesn’t answer. “Can you either turn around or fuck off. I realise you’ve all seen my ass before, but I don’t really want to look at you while I get my junk out.”  
   
“Tony. Do you think Ross would do this if your positions were reversed?”  
   
“If I ask for the suit, use it’s default code. 009368881. You got that?”  
   
Fury averts his eyes when he pushes down his pants. “You’re making a mistake.”  
   
Tony relents. “I know,” he admits. “Tell them to open the door.”  
   
Inside the cell, it scents like blood and sweat. Steve is shivering, whimpering, knees drawn up to his chest. Tony moves quietly, feet falling softly on the cold, metal floor. “Hi,” he whispers. He holds out his hand. “Steve,” he says, softly. “Hey, Steve. It’s me. It’s just me, here for you.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve croons, long and low, head buried in his knees.  
   
“Tony,” he agrees. “Tony. Here,” he inches closer, “you want to scent me, sweetheart? You can, if you want, I don’t mind.”  
   
He’s brushing his forearm over his face, again and again, reflexive. Like he’s trying to push out bad scent, pollen. “Tony?” He groans, digging his hands into his eyes, “ _Tony.”_  
   
“Yeah,” he says again, softly. “It’s me. I know I look different. I know I might… I might scent a bit different, too. But d’you know me, Steve? Captain?”  
   
Steve looks up at him. His eyes are soft like this, unguarded. He cocks his head to the side, not submissive, but – relaxed. Inquisitive. “Tony?”  
   
“Tony,” he says again, and this time, he knows it’s gone through. He holds his wrist close to Steve’s nose; he recoils slightly, wrinkles his face.  
   
“I know,” he agrees. “I, uh. Well, you don’t like hearing it, but I guess I was with someone else before… you know, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” He hears himself say kindly, brushing his hand against Steve’s hair, lank and dirty from the field. “I can’t believe they kept you here all this time and didn’t tell me, Steve.”  
   
Steve shuts his eyes, fingers twitching on Tony’s wrist, holding it to his nose. “T’hurts,” he mumbles, then groans, face screwed.  
   
“Oh,” Tony breathes, climbing down to his knees, shuffling closer, “shh,” he soothes him, “shh, Steve, it’s alright, isn’t it? Here,” he eases his head carefully into the join of shoulder and neck, strokes his hair again and again. “It’s going to be okay. Easy, big boy. You’re okay. I know you’re going to be okay.”  
   
Steve scents his neck, deeply. It feels good to have him there. Like he belongs there. His hands are creeping up Tony’s back, pulling closer, a hand in his hair, gripping. And tugging.  
   
Tony lets his head fall back, lets him snuffle along his throat. “That’s it,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Steady, Steve. I’m – I’m – “ he fists his hand in Steve’s hair just to feel him, “I’m here for you, darling. All for you.”  
   
Slowly, Steve unfolds his legs, lets his muscles loosen; he’s hard, desperately, red and thick and _sore._ Tony feels nothing but sympathy for him, too many days locked in cell with higher-thinking gone and only pain for company. A longing for touch. “I’ll make it better,” he’s breathing against the side of Steve’s head, huffing it, “I’ll make it better, I’ll – “  
   
Steve fingers tighten in his hair to the point of pain. He makes an unhappy sound – an _angry_ sound. Tony thinks, he’s found the other alpha’s scent. Whatever the fuck his name was. Tony steadies himself, doesn’t flinch; Steve is Steve. He would never knowingly hurt him. But he isn’t very knowing right now.  
   
“You – you – “ Steve snorts in frustration, snarls at his lack of words. “ _Bad,”_ he manages, sucking a bruise into Tony’s throat.  
   
He gasps. “Yes, I am,” he agrees, licking his lower lip, “I am, very, very bad Steve. I’ve been very bad, without you. I’ve done lots of b-bad – “  
   
Steve is holding his throat. Squeezing. “Bad,” he grunts again, shaking him slightly. Tony shivers, gripped, vulnerable.  
   
“I’ll make it up to you,” he breathes, slightly dazed with the tight proximity, Steve’s crazy out-pour of pheromones intense enough to make a nun blush. “I deserve punishment, huh? I deserve – you to make me yours again – “  
   
Tony chokes; “ _Bad,”_ he says again, pinching him by the scruff of his neck, his sensitive, soft nape, all those fragile nerve endings ready to be plucked, ready to make him hurt.  
   
He whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Steve growls in frustration, shakes him. He cries out, can’t help it; the shock of sharp pain sends his nerves skittering, takes him by surprise.  
   
“Bad,” Steve says again, snarls it in his ear. “Bad, bad, bad.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony tries, something like panic starting in his belly, “I’m – here for you, darling, I’m – “  
   
If Steve rejects him – if Steve decides he’s been played, or that he’s not happy with the merchandise on offer…  
   
Well, then the humiliation of being turned down will be the least of his problems.  
   
Steve is digging the tips of his fingers into the soft skin, scruffing him like a naughty puppy. It _hurts_ , his eyes water unbidden. “Steve,” he says, “I’m sorry, make me yours. Punish me for it. I’ve been bad, so bad, haven’t I?”  
   
But he just frowns at him. Traces the shape of his brow, eyes, cheekbones, nose, lips, with one finger. “Bad,” he says again, softly.  
   
He thinks, they’re probably watching this behind the screen and laughing. They’ve probably all placed their bets. “Bad?” He asks, quietly.  
   
Steve is wracked by something, a shiver, a spasm; he curls tighter, groans. “Oh,” he breathes, pained, voice breathy and soft and scared, bracing his hand on the wall. “It – they – bad. You, Tony.” He wraps his arms around Tony’s back, squeezes him tight – _hugs_ him, rocking them back and forth, breathing in Tony’s throat.  
   
Carefully, he cups the back of Steve’s head. “Me,” he whispers, in his ear, just for him. “You own me, Steve, you know that. You can make me smell like you, again.”  
   
He fingers tighten, but he makes no move to put Tony on his hands and knees, even though he’s wet and ready. “C’mon,” Tony urges, grinding himself against him. “It’ll help, Steve.”  
   
“Bad,” Steve groans into his skin. “Bad, Tony.”  
   
“God, stop – whining,” Tony teases, drawing back. “C’mon. We can fix this, then you can – punish me,” he adds, “even though the world and their mom is gonna know it, I’ll allow it on this occasion, okay?” Tony would like to feel something. He’d like to feel nails in his skin, fingers in his hair, bruises and bites. He’d like to feel himself again, even if only for a short time.  
   
Steve just holds tight. Moans, like a sad wolf.  
   
Tony lifts his chin, bares the line of his neck. “Okay,” he says, moving his lips as little as possible, “look at me, Steve. I’m so open for you.” He grips his wrist, makes him stroke down his throat. “I’ll do anything you want if you touch me there, you know I will.”  
   
Steve’s lips brush his throat. Gentle, and soft. Tony relaxes. “Here,” he says, carefully coaxing him forward, away from his corner. “Slowly, darling. There’s no rush.”  
   
Steve limps forward on his knees, shuffles, whimpering. Tony brushes his hair back from his face, blows cool air on his sweat-soaked brow. “Back,” he shows him easing him onto the floor. He’s drawn tightly, so tightly that he won’t let his legs lie flat, the muscles corded and thick. His cock is hard, red and purpling, swollen. It’s going to hurt him, Tony know. This isn’t going to feel good.  
   
“Good, Steve,” he tells him, carefully sitting himself on his waist, stroking his shoulders, his scrunched face, pained. “You just lie here, okay? Let me do it, Steve, because it’s going to help. This’ll help you, darling.”  
   
Steve makes a voice like a wounded puppy. He tosses his head, mumbles incoherently, fists a hand in his hair.  
   
“Alright,” Tony soothes, “okay. Easy. Easy, Steve, shh, I’m gonna just – slowly, okay?” He grips him in hand, strokes him once, twice, and he bites his lip with pain, throws back his head. “I know,” Tony says, and he’s crying because his body can’t help it, even though he feels nothing the scent of his alpha in pain just – makes him. “Slowly. It’s going to be okay, I’ll go as slowly as I can.”  
   
He positions himself above Steve’s cock, lines them up. Carefully, gently, starts to lower himself down. Steve groans; his voice his tight, and high, fingers scratching on the floor, twisting in his own hair. He seats himself, fully, grinds his hips in short little circles, biting his lip to hold back; when he pulls up, he makes sure to clench, and –  
   
Steve comes. Just like that, inside him. He screams it, back bowed, knees bent, wrenched from his mouth. Tony doesn’t let up. Calmly, he just keeps fucking him slowly through it until Steve’s eyes are open and wet and his mouth is a lax ‘O’, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.  
   
Tony sighs, “better?”  
   
Steve is still hard, and still just lying there, breathing. The shock of it has momentarily broken his brain. “Uh,” he groans.  
   
“Better,” Tony knows. He pulls himself off, dripping, settles himself against Steve’s waist. He’s still hard, but the urgency, that awful soreness, has gone – they’ve done the worst part. “Hey,” he laughs, cupping his cheek. “How you feeling?”  
   
Steve blinks slowly, eyes hooded, smacks his lips. “Tony,” he murmurs, covering his hand.  
   
“That’s me. You ready to use your words now?”  
   
“No,” Steve says stubbornly, letting his eyes shut. “What… where…”  
   
“Helicarrier. You’ve been here a few days.”  
   
“Smell bad. Not yourself.”  
   
“Well, it’s been seven months, Steve.”  
   
“No. Smell _bad,”_ he grunts, “not yourself.”  
   
“Extremis.”  
   
“ _No,”_ he presses, pushing up on his forearms. “Who you been fucking?”  
   
“You’re such a jealous bitch,” Tony sighs, wiping an errant tear from Steve’s cheekbone with his thumb. “You shouldn’t have left,” he says, carefully, stepping his fingers up the side of Steve’s head. “If it mattered so much to you.”  
   
Steve frowns at him, punch-drunk on whatever the fuck he’s been drugged with. “Silly boy,” he says fondly, letting his head fall back, gripping Tony’s waist. “C’mere,” he slurs, pulling him down his body, trailing slick along his chest. Tony’s exhilarates; he fucking loves to be manhandled, moved around like he weighs nothing. He giggles.  
   
Steve grips his wrists, holds them down on the floor, nose nestled between his ass-cheeks, mouthing at his balls. “Oh, fuck,” Tony groans, twitches away, gets held firm. “Steve – maybe now is the best time to mention, there’s a room full of – oh. Oh, oh, oh. Oh, okay,” he finds himself nodding, hopelessly, pushing himself down against the feel of Steve’s tongue, “thank you, okay. This is fine, this is good, just – don’t stop.”  
   
Steve is eating the slick out of him, determined, very thorough. Precise, is the word Tony thinks haphazardly, moaning like a whore in heat, head tipped back. He wishes, they were in bed. He wishes, it hadn’t been seven months. He wishes, just once, that he had picked up the phone.  
   
The pheromones Steve’s pouring out make him more receptive, give rise to the opposite scents and hormones inside Tony’s body. When he comes, it’s brief, and smooth, almost superficial, like he’s in heat. “Thanks,” he hears himself sighing, leaning forward, grinding himself against Steve’s face through the aftershocks.  
   
Lips swollen, red raw, chin slick, pupils blown. He’s back under. Pushing Tony off his chest, rough, letting him slap against the cold floor. He grunts, pulling apart his legs, holding him down with one hand pushed haphazardly against the side of his face, squishing his cheeks. And just fucks into him like that, grunting.  
   
Tony shivers. He doesn’t say anything, just lets it happen. _God,_ he thinks, _I’m just a hole._ No one has used him like this in so long. He’s missed it like an ache.  
   
Steve pulls his hips higher, slaps his ass until he learns to spread his legs wider. Harder, faster. Tony moans, grinds back. He’s hard, still, his body caught up in Steve’s scent. The pleasure is different, almost constant. _Heat?_ He thinks, briefly, and then they both come, together, sticky and wet on the floor beneath them.  
   
Steve frowns at the mess, grips Tony’s hair. “Bad boy,” he says, forcing his face into, smearing him into the ground like a rag. He grinds him against it, then releases him to lick up the rest with his tongue.  
   
“Thank you,” Tony breathes, ragged. “I am,” he slurs, “a bad boy, thank you, Captain.”  
   
 He slips his arm beneath himself, starts to push up – Steve knocks him back down. “Stay,” he orders shortly, pacing to the observation window. He cracks his fist against it once, twice. Slams his body against the wall.  
   
“Steve!” Tony recoils, the violence shocking him. He scatters back, palms slapping against the floor. “What are you – “  
   
“This was _dangerous,”_ he growls, shoving his shoulder into the window, “I _know_ you’re there, you fucking perverts, he’s not your plaything, he’s not your tool, you don’t get to _decide_ when he’s used by me, you don’t get to put him in that position you low-life, dick-swallowing – “  
   
“Steve, I _wanted_ to help you!”  
   
Steve turns on him, points his finger. “ _You,”_ he growls, “don’t know what you want.”  
   
He’s pacing across the floor, and Tony – scrambles away, or tries to. He digs his fingers into his upper arm, drags him up; it _hurts._ When he slams him against the wall, it’s full-bodied, and his teeth rattle in his skull.  
   
He doesn’t let go of his arm. “Steve,” Tony tries, smiling, soothing, scratching his fingers against his grip, “I’m – I’m here for you, I’m – “  
   
Steve’s pupils are blown. He tips his head to the side, uncomprehending. Tony realises, this isn’t Steve. The anger has swallowed him up, burrowed into his head, and now – now –  
   
This is fight. Tony is locked in cell with an alpha in fight.  
   
“Suit,” he calls, “this isn’t working, suit, I need – “  
   
Steve claps a hand over his mouth. His shoulders are heaving, his eyes are blank. He presses his nose to Tony flesh. Digs his nails into his skin.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. _Suit,_ he thinks again, not risking fighting back. Steve will almost certainly see it as an affront, a rejection. His legs are shaking, he realises, distantly. He scents so angry, so distant –  
   
“What did you do?” Steve asks. He lifts his head, stares at him.  
   
Tony stares back. “What?” He says, behind Steve’s hand.  
   
He pulls it away. Cups his face, gently. “What did you do?”  
   
His face. Oh. _Oh._  
   
“I fixed it. I told you I would.”  
   
“I saw it, I just – didn’t believe it, I guess. You look young. I mean – younger.”  
   
“Yeah, well it regenerated my cells,” Tony says defensively. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” A beat. “You’re, uh – my arm. It hurts.”  
   
Steve frowns at him. Then: “Oh, god,” he quickly corrects, “Jesus, did I – “  
   
“It’s okay. You’re not yourself.”  
   
“Not my – you’re bleeding.” Steve stumbles back. His face scrunches. “You’re _bleeding!”_  
   
Tony slides down the wall, grips the bruise where Steve’s fingers had held him. “It’s okay, I’m fine, please don’t – “  
   
Steve recoils back like a beast that’s been struck. He roars, throws his fist into the wall, leaves a sizeable crater. “You’re _bleeding!”_  
   
He shuts his eyes, tightens his shoulders. “It’s fine,” he says again, “you’re drugged, it’s fine, just – calm down, Steve. Darling. Sweetheart. Please.”  
   
Steve screams. And then screams again. He pounds his fists into the wall, over and over, and Tony carefully tries to crawl along the wall, smearing blood, shaking. If he could get to the door – they’ll let him out, they have to let him out –  
   
“Don’t,” Steve croaks, turning. “Don’t, don’t leave. Don’t leave, Tony,” he pleads, backing himself against the entrance, blocking his exit. “They’re out there, they’ll _hurt_ you if you leave!”  
   
Tony hands are shaking. “There’s no one there,” he tries to reason, desperately, “just friends. Fury, and Pierce, Steve. Friends, they won’t hurt me.”  
   
Steve screws his face again, pumps his fist into the door. “ _Liars!”_ He screams. “They made you?! They made you come in here? They made you – it’s not _safe!”_  
   
“You’re right,” Tony tries, frantically, “it’s not safe, it’s not. I was a stupid, silly bitch for thinking I could – please, Steve. Please, calm down.”  
   
Steve is not reachable. When he looks up, nostrils flared, eyes red, shoulders taut like a bull prepping to strike. Tony thinks – he doesn’t see me. Or he does, but he doesn’t – know me.  
   
“Suit,” he croaks again, “for – for – fucking hell, the suit!”  
   
Steve lurches, against the wall, then forward, arms reaching. Tony can’t fight him off, he can’t dodge him. He collapses into him, unaware of his own sheer weight, forcing him to the ground, crushing him. “Tony,” he sobs, butting his nose against his cheek, his throat, “Tony, it’s not safe, it’s not – “  
   
Tony can’t breathe. He tries to say, _Steve,_ but it’s wheezed, his nails scratching into Steve’s back, _clawing._ “I’m gonna protect you, Tony, it’s safe here, just stay with me – “  
   
Black spots in his vision. He feels it, encroaching, panic and pain. He slaps his hands weakly into Steve’s shoulders, his face, tries to push him away. He –  
   
Barely blacks out. He hears the servos whirring, the suit gears grinding, the weight of Steve pulled off of him, his sentinel saving him before the dark takes him entirely. Steve is scared. Steve doesn’t understand what’s happening. There are other hands pulling him away, dragging him out of the cell. Steve puts a dent in the helmet. The faceplate flies across the room, cracks against the door just after it closes.  
   
The men behind the glass are panicking. He realises it’s Rumlow who dragged him clear. “Get him _out!”_ Pierce is screaming, he thinks maybe at Ross, “you useless, two-bit sack of shit you nearly _killed_ him, get _out!”_  
   
Tony’s ears are ringing, sucking in breath, gripping his throat. “What’s wrong with him?” He wheezes, “what have they done to him?”  
   
“Quickly,” Pierce says, draping a robe around his shoulders, “let’s get you somewhere safe.”  
   
“I’m – I’m fine,” Tony insists, although his legs are still shaking, “I’m fine, I just – “  
   
And they give out, just about. Pierce wraps his arm around his waist, has Rumlow slide himself against his other side. Tony wants to recoil. “Is he going to be okay?” He asks, because he can still hear Steve roaring, the thumping vibrations of his body as he screams for Tony, throwing himself against the walls.  
   
“Don’t you worry yourself about Steve,” Pierce says, squeezing his waist comfortingly. “He’s going to be fine. You just focus on putting one foot after another.”  
   
Pierce’s wears the same aftershave as his dad. Tony wants to listen. One foot after another, he thinks, as he’s moved down hallways. “You don’t need to – I can just go to medical.”  
   
“Rumlow,” Pierce ignores him, “if you could leave us. Tony, how are your legs?”  
   
“I can walk, I’m fine, I – “  
   
“You’ve bled,” Rumlow points out, lightly ghosting his upper arm with his fingers. They come away red. He’s bleeding, really bleeding, through the robe, and yet – he skitters away from Rumlow’s touch.  
   
“Who the fuck are you?” He sneers, defensive. “No shit, I’m bleeding. Aren’t you just the brightest crayon in the box, huh?”  
   
The muscles on Rumlow’s neck cord. “You should watch yourself, Stark,” he says, shortly.  
   
“Enough,” Pierce interrupts. “Brock, have some perspective. Tell Hill Tony’ll be needing an evac shortly, have it ready to leave, understand? And then clock off. You need sleep as much as the rest of us.”  
   
Rumlow jerks his chin to indicate he’s understood, but Tony feels his eyes on his back the whole way down the hall.  
   
“Here,” Pierce says, gently, buzzing them into his office. “I know it’s not luxury, but – it’ll be a relief, right? To get away from all that brass.”  
   
A couch, a desk, a wall that looks out at the sky. “Pierce,” Tony hears himself say, face screwed, “is he – is he going to be okay?”  
   
“Shh,” Pierce soothes. “You’re upset. Of course, you are. That was quite the shock, wasn’t it, Tony?” He’s moved away, indicating that Tony should sit himself on the couch.  
   
His hands are still shaking. “I never thought – “ he starts, and then stops himself. What is he doing? Why is he here? “I should go,” he says, shutting his eyes. “I shouldn’t – impose like this – “  
   
“Nonsense,” Pierce dismisses, holding a neat whiskey in front of his face. “Take some time, breathe. Let me fix up that arm. And then you’re going to go home and get some rest.”  
   
Tony wishes he had clothes. He doesn’t feel like it’s a good time to ask. He sips, and then downs the rest of the drink; it’s good. It’s warm.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Pierce says quietly, watching him closely. “We knew there would be risk.”  
   
“The suit. I asked, no one – “  
   
“Ross,” Pierce mutters, taking the glass, turning away. “The man is – a borderline sociopath. He and Nick came to blows, did you know that?”  
   
Tony wondered where Fury had gone, but he can’t imagine him ever being moved by anything enough to lose his cool like that. “I knew what I was getting into,” he murmurs, frowning. His head hurts. Pierce holds out another glass, and Tony is all too glad to accept.  
   
“You did,” Pierce says, carefully. “Although – you realise what happened, at that base. The Captain killed his men.”  
   
“Did he have a choice?”  
   
“No,” Pierce accepts. “My point is, alpha like that, From Stark – maybe you didn’t know what you were getting into, really. How well do you know him?”  
   
Tony looks up. “What?”  
   
“I don’t mean anything by it,” Pierce says gently. “Just that – there are hidden depths. Those drugs, the one that Rogers was dosed with? It only heightens what’s already there, Tony. Just… think about that.”  
   
Tony thinks, or tries to, while Pierce fetches a medical kit. Heightens what’s already there. Steve hadn’t meant to hurt him; he’d been afraid, unaware. He’d thought he was protecting him from a threat that only he could see. He’d saved omegas from alphas trying to take them against their will. _Don’t leave, Tony. They’ll hurt you._  
   
Absently, he wipes a tear from his cheek, sips his drink. Pierce is kind enough not to mention it, sitting himself next to him on the couch. “Now,” he says, quietly, fatherly, “let’s see what we can do about this arm, hmm?”  
   
Tony frowns, tilts his head. “What happened to the omegas?” He asks.  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“On the mission, Hill said – they were testing that drug on them, right? After the fight, what happened to them?”  
   
Pierce is quiet. He unzips the pack, rifles around for material. “Well,” he seems to say is carefully, like he’s thinking about his answer, “we’ll try to find their families, friends. They’re all very… I think Hill mentioned, they’re obviously all quite scarred.”  
   
“I want to help them,” Tony says, distantly.  
   
“Okay. That can be arranged.” Pierce leans forward, plucks the glass out of his hand. His body presses across Tony’s, enough that he almost squirms away, uncomfortable, instinctive; and then he scents him, almost right at his throat.  
   
He presses forward, just slightly – eyes shut, nose close the skin of Pierce’s jaw. Sandalwood. Sandalwood and – his dad’s aftershave, still. Tony is sitting on his dad’s lap, in his study. The floors have just been waxed clean, lemon. And his dad is showing him how to shine a shoe, bristles and polish.  
   
“From Stark?” Pierce interrupts, quietly. He hasn’t moved, as if he’s afraid to. Tony opens his eyes, slowly, exhausted. And then realises what he’s doing.  
   
“Oh, God,” he mutters, pulling back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking, I’m – “ Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with him? Tony feels his cheeks heat, the utter stupidity of him, scenting an alpha like that, scenting – _Alexander Pierce,_ like he’s a bitch in heat for the first time. He covers his face with his hand.  
   
“It’s alright,” Pierce says, but he sounds uncomfortable. “After all that – your body is just confused, Tony.”  
   
His hands are still shaking. He wants to put bury his head back into Pierce’s neck, scent that comfort again. “You wear the same as my dad,” he blurts.  
   
“I know,” Pierce says, unwrapping bandage, not meeting his eyes. “I’m showing my age.”  
   
“No,” Tony insists, “it’s good. It’s familiar. Like home.”  
   
Did he just say that? Pierce looks up, smiles at him. “Well, it’s nice to hear you say that, Tony.” He taps two fingers lightly against Tony’s chin, and he doesn’t even flinch. It feels nice. Good, to have someone guide his head to the side, gentle.  
   
“That’s it,” Pierce murmurs, leaning closer. Tony catches his scent again, rests the side of his head against the back of the couch, exposing the long line of his throat. “No damage here,” he says, checking for scratches, the pads of his finger just barely touching skin as they drag down his neck.  
   
Tony feels embarrassed to be allowing it. Pierce won’t know how being touched on his throat makes him, but Tony does; he shouldn’t be using him this way, it’s pathetic.  
   
“I just need to see your arm,” Pierce says, apologetically. “It means I’ll need to – the robe.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony sighs. It’s just Pierce.  
   
He shuffles closer. Carefully peels the fabric down over Tony’s shoulder, exposing the right side of his body. He winces. “Oh, Tony,” he says, “this is worse than I thought.”  
   
“Bad?”  
   
“Swollen. He really had a grip on you, hmm?”  
   
Tony barely remembers, he was so souped up on adrenalin. “Doesn’t hurt so bad.”  
   
“It must be hard,” Pierce says, ripping the sheet off an anti-bacterial wipe. “He’s so… strong.”  
   
“He’s gentle, though,” Tony defends, “you know that. He’s not a cruel man.”  
   
“No,” Pierce concedes, “I suppose I just – there was that business a year back. On the stairwell.”  
   
Tony, unbidden, remembers. Maybe it’s the pheromones, his exhaustion, but – the thought of that rough concrete, Steve’s fingers in his hair. “I hope he’s okay,” he murmurs. When he shuts his eyes, colours bloom behind them.  
   
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Pierce reassures. “This might hurt, now,” he warns, reaching forward to clean off the blood from the open cuts. His shirt brushes against Tony’s exposed nipple.  
   
He exhales, sharply, with a short whimper. “Is that alright?” Pierce asks, kindly, looking at him directly. Their faces are close. “That wasn’t bad, was it?”  
   
He shakes his head, then lets it slump forward onto Pierce’s shoulder.  
   
“Poor Tony,” Pierce sighs, briefly patting his hair. “You must be exhausted.”  
   
He inhales at Pierce’s throat. He thinks Pierce doesn’t mind so much.  
   
“He was so rough with you,” Pierce is saying, voice low, dabbing cream against the skin. It’s cold. Tony shivers. “It was so brave of you to do that for him, Tony. So brave. You are so _good,_ did you know that?”  
   
Tony picks up his head, blinks at him. “Am I?” He frowns.  
   
Pierce eases his head back down onto his shoulder. “You are,” he says, succinctly. “You’re not like other omegas, are you Tony?”  
   
Tony presses closer, nosing between Pierce’s shirt and his skin. He’s lying in bed. The pillows are made of feathers, the sheets are silk. There’s a gag in his mouth, and his wrists are tied with rope. What was it, Ty had said? _You’re special, Tony. You’re nothing like the rest of them._  
   
But scenting Pierce, the panic that should accompany the memory never comes. He mumbles. “Hmm?” Pierce prompts.  
   
“I’m whatever you want me to be,” Tony slurs.  
   
“So responsive,” Pierce says, mostly to himself. He holds the bandage against Tony’s upper arm, starts to wrap around it carefully. His fingers brush Tony’s skin. “I was so glad,” he continues, “when I heard you’d used extremis. If anyone could make it work, it would be you.”  
   
He ties off the end of the bandage, carefully pats his arm once, twice. “It was awful what that man did. I hear Rogers – what was it. Decapitation, in the end?”  
   
“Think so,” Tony yawns.  
   
“I suppose that’s just the kind of man he is,” Pierce, again, says mostly to himself. He hears him sigh, and then mindlessly, rest his hand on the back of Tony’s neck.  
   
Tony shivers, pitches forward. He thinks – he doesn’t think. He’s not thinking, at all, exhausted, and shut off. And Pierce is stroking his neck. “I think he’s dangerous, Tony. Do you trust me?”  
   
He trusts him. He must. Pierce gently presses him back against the couch, head lolling down; he pinches his cheeks between his thumb and fingers. “Do you trust me?” He asks again. “It’s important to me that you answer, Tony.”  
   
Tony nods. Yes, he says, I trust you.  
   
“Good,” Pierce tells him, and then: “ _Good._ You’re very, very good Tony.”  
   
Tony flushes. Shuts his eyes to avert his gaze. “No,” Pierce orders, gently, “keep them open. Look at me.”  
   
Tony does.  
   
Pierce tips his head to the side, looks at him. His thumb – wipes drool away from his chin. His bottom lip, thumbing it down. “I think, he isn’t good for you, Tony. I think you’re good, but I don’t think he’s good for you. Do you agree?”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what he thinks. Pierce smells like… like… Tony is fifteen, and naked on his hands and knees, wet and hard. _Oak._ That’s what it smells like. The floor of Cain’s house, knees rubbed raw. He’s so fucking tired. He feels his eyes crossing over.  
   
“I said, do you agree?” Pierce presses. His face is blurry. His lips are moving, and sound follows after. Disconnect.  
   
“Hmm?” Tony asks. He would like to be… he would like to be on an oak floor. He would like to be on a silk bed. He would like to – to crawl onto Pierce’s lap, and bury his head in his neck. Crawl into his skin.  
   
“Do you agree?”  
   
With what? Tony can’t even remember. His head is so heavy. “Yes,” he says, so Pierce will say the words again, so Tony will feel that flush of heady praise.  
   
“He doesn’t treat you right,” Pierce continues, “the way you deserve to be treated. Does he?”  
   
Tony nods. Pierce’s eyes are hard. They’re fixed on him, urgent. His fingers are gripping his face.  
   
“Tell me: how do you like to be treated?”  
   
 _How do you like to be treated?_ Tony hears the words, it takes a while to understand their meaning. “I like…” he starts, confused. “I like – whatever you like,” he answers.  
   
Pierce stares at him, for a long while. Tony casts down his eyes.  
   
“Of course,” he says, gently, eventually. “Of course you do, you pretty fool. You’re bred for this, aren’t you?”  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“I worry,” Pierce smiles, taking back his hand. “I worry, is all, Tony. I wouldn’t want to think he was ever rough with you.”  
   
Tony smiles back, echoes him. His robe has fallen open. He realises – that his arms and legs don’t work. That they’re too heavy to move. He tries to lift his arm to cover himself, and – very slowly, very detached, he can twitch his fingers. Maybe make his hand into a fist. “Hmm?” He frowns down at himself, and then back at Pierce.  
   
“You’re exhausted,” Pierce tells him, calmly. “You’ve had a shock. That’s why you don’t feel well.”  
   
His voice is firm, and reassuring. Tony nods. He slips forward, face-plants back into Pierce’s shoulder.  
   
He strokes his neck again. “You’re going to stay here,” he says, “because you’re in no shape to leave.”  
   
Okay. If those are his orders, he’ll obey.  
   
Pierce moves off, carefully lowers him down. He picks up his legs and arranges them on the couch. There’s a cushion beneath his head; it scents like Pierce, but sharper. Colours bloom behind his eyes, he’s dizzy with exhaustion. He’s draped in Pierce’s coat. It smells like aftershave. His dreams are strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warnings: both Tony and Steve are drugged at separate times in this chapter, and both have coerced/dubiously consensual sex*
> 
> so yeah. next chapter will be chill and happy, i promise. there will be lots of talking and understanding reached. it's kinda coming to the main business. i guess i should remind y'all that while tonky stark and stonky rogers are in it for the long run, there's some dark shit ahead.
> 
> also, i'd REALLY like to know 1) what you think of steve and how he came across and 2) what pierce's endgame is


	15. cellphone

The first time Steve calls, Tony lets it ring out.  
   
He’s called him a lot, in the seven months he’s been gone. At first, it was every day, then every week. Then, once a month. But never less than that. Every time it went unanswered, he’d send a message, in that clunky way he texts:  
   
 _Hi Tony,, it is Steve here, hope u are well, get in touch at any time, thinking of u_  
 _Steve_  
  
He’s not a sadist. What was he supposed to think, after he left? No reason, no acknowledgement of – anything. He’d shook his hand. He’d _shook his hand._ Like they were _business partners._ It’s not that Tony felt he was owed anything – he isn’t. But he’d still been… sick. Ill, with what happened with Killian. And while he never expected Steve to be there, the idea that he’d felt no obligation at all…  
   
In short, he’d taken Steve for granted. Which doesn’t mean he wasn’t probably – privately devastated, or something, when he left. Not for any reason other than… Steve was familiar, and he enjoyed his company. And looking back, he had only ever tried to protect him, in his own, old-fashioned, awkward way.  
   
But it’s not the first time Tony’s screwed up a good thing. Putnam, Teddy Putnam – the boy with the red hair and mild acne, a shy alpha who they were going to contract him to long-term, until he went and got – until he ruined it, with the Bad Contract, and all the rumors that went along with it. No one wanted him after that. Tony bets, he would have been happy with Teddy. He used to make him laugh.  
   
This time, Steve calls again. Tony is fascinated with the persistence, and a little frightened – he doesn’t know what he’ll want on the other end of the line. Apologies, explanations. Steve had been so scared in that room, and he had done awful things.  
   
But then, when Tony was scarred and charred and lying in a hospital bed in a foreign country, Steve hadn’t balked, had he? He’d sat there with him, and held his hand, even when he’d spat at him, and threatened him, and screamed curses about his lineage.  
   
So this time, he answers.  
   
“Hello?” He starts, tentatively.  
   
“Hi.” Steve’s voice is clipped, thick. “I, uh – I didn’t wake you, did I?”  
   
Tony lets his head hit the pillow. “No,” he admits, “I’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour.”  
   
“Hah. Right,” he laughs, weakly. “Trouble sleeping?”  
   
“Increasingly. You called?”  
   
“You answered,” Steve replies, and there’s a hint of reproach.  
   
“Yeah, I did. How about that?”  
   
“I guess you… got those other calls, right?”  
   
Tony sighs. “Yeah,” he says guiltily, “I did.”  
   
“I’m sorry if, uh. If me leaving like that, if it left you with some – unanswered questions, or if you were hurt – “  
   
“It’s fine, Steve. Duty calls. Or, it called. I was the one who convinced you to take up with Pierce’s STRIKE team anyway.” And doesn’t he just live to regret it every day.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, heavily. It sounds like he swallows, hard. “Duty. I actually – about that. The helicarrier – “  
   
“Steve…”  
   
“The way I acted was absurd, it was – if I hurt you, if I scared you, Jesus, Tony. I’m so sorry.”  
   
“You didn’t hurt me,” Tony says guardedly, even though his arm is still bruised. “You were out of your mind.”  
   
Steve huffs. “Out of my mind,” he croaks, “yeah, that’s one way to put it.”  
   
Tony sits up. “Steve,” he says softly, “are you okay?”  
   
“Okay? Am I – am I _okay?_ I killed five men, Tony, five men, with my own bare hands. And they have families, you know. They were _my_ men, under my command, and now – “  
   
“But you didn’t have a choice,” Tony tries, “what was the alternative?”  
   
“I should have found one,” Steve grieves. “I could have, if I’d tried harder. If I’d been better.”  
   
Tony wants to reach out and stroke his hair, but he is in DC, and Tony is in New York, and it might as well be the other side of the world. “Steve, with respect,” he says, as tactful as possible, “you were not in any position to be constructing – grand plans, or noble feats. You stopped those omegas from facing a – fucking awful fate, understand? Being – being raped to death, Steve, by soldiers, is not – it’s not – it was them, or the men. And you’re a _good_ man, a _good_ alpha – you made the right call. You protect the omegas and children first, Steve.”  
   
“God,” he rasps, “the omegas. They were slaves, Tony, they were – experiments. Most of them couldn’t even speak, the only one that could… the things she said. Skinny little things, you could see bone. They were all drugged, that’s what they do there. Test this – this drug – “  
   
“You were drugged,” Tony reminds him, “nothing you did was in character.”  
   
“It only heightens what’s already there,” Steve scoffs. “Those poor – huddling like that. I can’t, _fuck,_ I can’t stop seeing it. I want to stop seeing it. I want to tear out my eyes – “  
   
“Steve, where are you?”  
   
“Apartment. They discharged me last night.”  
   
“Are you sure you’re okay? That everything is – out of your system?”  
   
“Oh, it’s out of my system,” he says darkly. “This is all me, Tony.”  
   
“Then talk to me,” Tony decides, spontaneously. “Tell me. You can tell me, Steve, everything. Let me help you.”  
   
“You don’t want to hear it. Trust me, Tony, you don’t want to – you won’t.”  
   
“You’re right, I don’t. But I want you to talk about it, instead of – I don’t know. Bottling it. You bottle things, did you know that? It’s good to talk, Steve.”  
   
“What,” Steve scoffs, “you want to hear how I ripped a man’s throat with my bare hands? That I crushed ribs, that I – I bit muscle with my teeth? You don’t know the half of it, Tony, you think – you only know an omega’s violence, what you see behind your suit. You don’t feel blood on your skin, thumping under your hands, you don’t – you don’t – “  
   
“I don’t,” Tony hears himself agreeing, softly, “and it’s a hard thing. Thank you, for doing it. For putting yourself through those things, for the good of the rest of us.”  
   
Steve grunts, accepting. Tony chose his words carefully, appealed to Steve’s hind-brain: thank you, alpha, for protecting the pack. You did the right thing, alpha. Listen to me talk so softly and gently and sweetly to you, alpha, so you know that I respect your choice.  
   
“You never talk,” Tony continues, quietly. “I know when something is upsetting you. When you’re stressed, when you’re scared. You never talk about it. You never let me help.”  
   
“It’s not your job to – worry about _me._ You don’t need to protect me, that’s – absurd, Tony.”  
   
“I would like to help you, though.”  
   
Steve sighs, and it’s tight. “You don’t understand,” he mutters. “You can’t help me, because there are things I can’t tell you.”  
   
Tony eases himself back down against the pillows. “I’m not some virgin O, Steve, I’m Iron Man. I’ve killed people, often, and I don’t lose much sleep over it. I’m not sure what secrets you carry that are too much for me to handle.”  
   
“Not secrets,” Steve relents. “It’s – when I saw them huddled there, I didn’t see them. I saw you.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony accepts, voice level.  
   
“After I’d ripped off Killian’s head, you were still awake. Do you remember?”  
   
“No,” Tony admits.  
   
“You’d pushed yourself into the corner. And – I don’t need to remind you, how bad the wounds were. I think you knew it too, even though you hadn’t seen yourself, because you kept asking. Over and over. ‘Am I alright? Do I look pretty?’”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “Oh,” he says.  
   
“Yeah. The look in your eyes, Tony, God – oh, God, oh _God._ You don’t understand, okay? Don’t tell me you do. You don’t know what it’s like, all I have to be, all I have to do, is be good at one thing. I just need to keep you safe. I need to, I _need_ to, and I failed. I see your face every night, before I sleep. It ruined me, Tony. When I say, you can’t help me – you can’t. There are some things that are an alpha’s burden.”  
   
Tony is quiet, Steve’s breathing ragged down the line. “I agree,” he says eventually.  
   
“You do?”  
   
“I do.” He doesn’t, not really – he thinks Steve is mythologizing his breed too much. Still, he deserves validation. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, to feel as though – I’m responsible for a whole breed in that way. To have a biological push to just… be like that.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Yeah. Steve, you made the right call. And I know it was bloody, and awful, but every man that was there was there by choice, knew the risks, and you had to choose between an awful death for the vulnerable or an awful death for the people that were going to hurt them. And you made the right call. You always do, Steve. That’s why you’re alpha. It’s why I trust you.”  
   
“Do you trust me?” Steve asks, ragged.  
   
“I do,” Tony tells him, honestly.  
   
“I’m sorry I – I’m sorry I brought up what happened. With Killian.”  
   
“It’s fine. I’m selfish, Steve, I forgot that – it would have damaged you, too. That you had to see me like that. I get very upset when I – “ he breaks off.  
   
“When you?” Steve prompts.  
   
“When I have to see _you_ like that,” he admits. “It was hard, on the helicarrier. I’m not used to you being out of control.”  
   
“They never should have sent you in,” Steve growls, “it wasn’t safe, I could have killed you.”  
   
“It was a calculated risk. I wanted to help you. Fury was against it.”  
   
“Sounds like Fury’s the only one with any damn sense.”  
   
“Pierce wasn’t keen either, he’s just a pragmatist.” Tony thinks about waking up on his leather couch the next day with only foggy memory of what came before. “We spoke, after.”  
   
“Oh yeah?”  
   
“Yeah. He thinks you’re rough with me, Steve.”  
   
“Is he right?” Steve sounds sad.  
   
“No,” Tony admits, “I think he’s old fashioned. Or maybe – he’s a good guy, right? But I think he thinks I’m some kind of… I don’t know. Maybe it’s a family thing, you know? He’s just looking out for me.”  
   
“Why now?”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Well, at least someone is looking out for you.”  
   
“You look out for me.”  
   
“I try. You don’t like to listen.”  
   
And Tony laughs at that, feels himself smiling. “I guess that’s true,” he says, “you know I’m a stubborn bitch.”  
   
A beat. “Tony,” Steve starts, “about Killian – “  
   
“It’s fine, Steve.”  
   
“I’m sorry I left. I know that hurt you, because you wouldn’t answer my calls.”  
   
“It was – weird,” he agrees, slowly. “When you went to DC, like that. I don’t know – I don’t know what I did wrong.”  
   
“Come down to DC,” Steve says. “We can talk about it, over dinner.”  
   
Steve can’t see his smile. He hugs the phone to the side of his head. “Dinner?” He snorts, “I didn’t realise you were such a man about town now, Steve.”  
   
“I don’t want to brag,” he says, voice rough in a way that means he’s holding back a laugh, “but the girl at the coffee shop knows my order. _That’s_ how urban I am these days, Tony.”  
   
 _It’s good to hear your voice,_ Tony thinks desperately, and pushes that aside. “Oh yeah? She cute?”  
   
“Tony!”  
   
“I’m just – you know, enquiring,” he shrugs, “Pierce mentioned something about a neighbour – “  
   
“I am _not_ fucking my neighbour. I don’t even look at my neighbour. C’mon, she’s beta, Tony. I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”  
   
“And if she was omega?”  
   
“I prefer male presenting, anyway.”  
   
“And if she was a he?”  
   
“Then they wouldn’t be you,” Steve says warmly. “Enough about it, okay? I want to hear about you. Talk to me.”  
   
Tony tells him about Pierce and their gala next week. “I’m his date,” Tony informs him, “jealous yet?”  
   
“Oh sure, I know how you like older guys.”  
   
“And he’s rich, Steve. Are you rich? Maybe I want to be wined and dined.”  
   
“I’m sure I beat him in other ways,” he says, and Tony can hear his smirk.  
   
He tells him about Bruce, and that he won’t believe this, but Clint has a family in Iowa he thinks he’s keeping secret. He tells him that the tower is lonely, and that he’s getting extremis patented.  
   
“So you’ve been busy,” Steve says, “that’s good, Tony. I like to see you busy.”  
   
“I don’t know if ‘busy’ is the word, but sure. I’m not bored.”  
   
“And you’re, uh,” Steve clears his throat. “You’re feeling better, I take it. I mean – not just extremis, you were – were sad, a little. Before I left. You’re feeling better?”  
   
“Yeah. I’m better.”  
   
There’s a short silence. Then: “I’ve been leaving a lot lately, huh?”  
   
“You could say that,” Tony admits, weakly.  
   
“It’s not because of you.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“I – “ Steve sighs, down the line. “I had stuff to work out. After what happened with Killian – even before that. I thought maybe we were bad for each other. Brought out the worst.”  
   
“I never thought you were the worst,” Tony says, quietly.  
   
“I did. Sometimes, the way I acted, and the things I said… you take too much, Tony. I don’t know why. I could be mean.”  
   
“So could I.”  
   
“Because we were – I don’t know, volatile?” He sounds so frustrated. “We would rub along against each other – “  
   
“We did do that a lot.”  
   
“Ha ha, funny. I mean – like friction. You would just go out of your way to make me so angry, and I was wrong to let it get to me the way it did.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “I would do that. I’m sorry.”  
   
“It’s fine.”  
   
“I guess I just – you’re alpha, Steve. I needed to push those boundaries. The fact that you were struggling, I don’t know, I can be an ass.”  
   
“Earlier, you said – you didn’t know what you did wrong, to make me leave. I just hope you know it’s nothing you did, Tony. It was all me.”  
   
Tony doesn’t believe him, but he appreciates his trying to make him believe it. “Alright, then.”  
   
“Where are you?”  
   
“Bedroom. Specifically, the bed.”  
   
A brief pause. “What, uh. What are you wearing?”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
Sex on the brain, huh? That was a quick pivot. _It was all me, Tony – by the way, what colour are your panties?_ “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”  
   
“I just want to know what you’re wearing,” Steve says, with an air of innocence.  
   
“Just the usual. Button down and pants.” Tony feels embarrassed even saying it. “Why?”  
   
“Want to get the full picture.” A beat. “What are you wearing – underneath your clothes?”  
   
Tony smiles, lets himself relax against the pillows. “Hmm,” he says, “I can’t remember.”  
   
“You can’t remember?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony teases, “I guess I could… take off my clothes. And check.”  
   
“You do that,” Steve says, voice rough, warm. Tony puts down his cell and picks off the buttons of his shirt, kicks down his pants, squirms out of them and pushes everything down the bed. The air is warm, but his skin goose-pimples anyway.  
   
“They’re blue,” Tony tells him, “just in case you were wondering.”  
   
“What do they look like?”  
   
“You want a picture?”  
   
“No. That’s dangerous, right? I want you to tell me what they look like.”  
   
“They’re, uh.” Does Steve know the technical name of different cuts of underwear? “Low-slung,” he settles for, “on my hips. Silk. They have a white trim, lacey.”  
   
Steve grunts. “What about your ass?” He asks.  
   
Tony licks his lips. “They’re tight,” he says, “they don’t hide anything.”  
   
“I didn’t realise you were wearing pretty panties now,” Steve says, voice strangely level, calm, and that just – does something, to Tony. That matter-of-fact tone. “Last time I checked, you were still on white briefs.”  
   
“I guess you’ve changed something for me,” Tony murmurs, closing his eyes. “I would have had the skin tanned off my ass if I was caught with a pair of these growing up.”  
   
“That’s stupid,” Steve says plaintively, and it’s cute how strongly he believes in Tony’s fundamental human right to wear whatever underwear he wants. “I don’t understand it, Tony. I don’t know what happened. You’re omega, you don’t need to pretend to be – your biology isn’t a fetish, it shouldn’t be treated as a secret. Wear what you fucking want.”  
   
“I want to wear whatever you want me to wear,” Tony smiles, eyes shut.  
   
“Well that’s – “ Steve huffs a laugh, “that’s your prerogative, I guess. Free choice, and all.”  
   
“Tell me what to do,” Tony asks, because he can’t be bothered to dress it up. He just wants to hear Steve’s voice, giving him instruction.  
   
“Are you comfortable, Tony?”  
   
“Uh huh,” he nods.  
   
“What about your arm? Does it hurt, holding the phone? Why don’t you put me on speaker?”  
   
Tony does, letting it rest on the pillow next to his head. “Okay,” he says, “done.”  
   
“You tired, Tony?” God, Steve sure is asking him a lot of questions.  
   
“A little,” he admits.  
   
“Then I want you to do this for me,” Steve’s says warmly, voice a blanket. “Can you touch your neck for me, sweetheart? Behind your ears, the way I know you like.”  
   
That’s strange, but Tony doesn’t question it. “Sure,” he says, “but it’s not as good as when you do it.”  
   
“I’m sorry I’m not there,” Steve says honestly. “When we have dinner, I’ll show you my apartment. You’ll stay the night.”  
   
“Obviously,” Tony mutters, but his voice is slow, dozy. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. “I don’t like the idea of you alone in that building.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
Tony doesn’t know. It upsets him. “Needs an omega’s touch,” he says.  
   
“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Tony,” and Steve sounds approving. “Are you offering to move in?”  
   
“I’m telling you to move back.” And then: “I don’t know why you had to leave like that,” Tony blurts. “We were good, and I liked you. And I know I messed up, what I did with Killian, and I paid for it, but – I’ve been thinking, and I want to change for you. Be better for you, if that’s what it takes.”  
   
“Be better?” Steve asks, quietly.  
   
“I’ll stop it,” Tony tells him. “The sleeping around. If that’s what it takes to have you, I’ll stop it. I would rather have you. You are more important to me than – any of the protection, and any of the… material gain.”  
   
A long silence. Then: “That’s, uh,” Steve says.  
   
“Uh?” Tony winces, covering his eyes with his hand.  
   
“I mean – really?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You mean that? You really mean that?”  
   
“Yeah.” Tony uncovers his eyes, slowly. “I do,” he says, more firmly.  
   
“Oh. Woah. Fucking – hah,” Steve laughs, a little. “Seriously?”  
   
“Steve, you’re killing the moment.”  
   
“That’s really good, Tony,” and his voice is so warm, “I am very, very glad to hear that, you understand? It means a lot to me.”  
   
“It does?”  
   
“It does. And we’ll talk about it, when you’re here. But I think it cost you a lot to say that, didn’t it? It was hard.”  
   
Tony nods, resuming petting his throat. “Uh huh,” he says.  
   
“For what it’s worth – I don’t want you to change for me. And we’ll talk about that. But I appreciate what it cost you to say that, Tony. And I really love that you – care enough, about to me, to offer it.”  
   
Tony frowns, lassitude making his lips loose. “Steve,” he asks, “have you been reading those relationship books?”  
   
Steve laughs, warm, blurry. “Maybe. You’re not the only one who can be proactive.”  
   
“Well, uh,” Tony sighs, pushing his head back into the pillow, dragging the tips of his fingers down his throat, “I, uh, _appreciate_ that you read those books to try and make up with me. And I really love that you care enough about me to bother.”  
   
“Good. Are you sleepy, Tony?”  
   
“No,” he lies, shutting his eyes, half smiling.  
   
“Are you still stroking your sweet spot?”  
   
“’Course.”  
   
“Can you still talk?”  
   
“For you? Always.”  
   
He hears Steve sigh, can imagine him kicking off his shoes, lying back on his couch. He wonders what kind of couch Steve has. He wonders if he even has a couch.  
   
“Can I ask a personal question?”  
   
“Anything.”  
   
“Those new panties – where’d you buy them?”  
   
Tony raises an eyebrow but doesn’t open his eyes. “A shop,” he says, slowly.  
   
“You bought them in person?”  
   
“Sure. I like to shop.”  
   
“You buy anything else?”  
   
Tony snorts, lazily. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says. “These just caught my eye.”  
   
“How much?”  
   
“Steve, _what_?”  
   
“How much did they cost?”  
   
“Too much, I think. Hundred, hundred-twenty maybe.”  
   
“I bet they look divine.”  
   
“If you were here, you’d be able to see yourself.”  
   
A beat. “You shouldn’t tempt me,” he says, “I have work tomorrow.”  
   
“So do I.”  
   
“I think about your body a lot, you know,” Steve says, casually, like that isn’t the hottest thing Tony’s ever heard. “You distract me even when you’re not here.”  
   
“So?”  
   
Tony can practically hear his frown. “What do you mean, ‘so?’”  
   
“So, what are you going to do about it?” Tony pushes his free hand into the panties, cups himself. Shivers.  
   
“Did you enjoy it? On the helicarrier, I mean. I know I was rough.”  
   
Tony squeezes himself, spreads his legs. “You’re always rough,” he mutters, grinding the flat of his palm against his shaft.  
   
“Rougher than usual, then. Did you… enjoy that?”  
   
“Of course I did,” Tony says truthfully, hating himself. “You know they all saw, right? Pretty much all of them. I wouldn’t put it past Fury to have a copy for blackmail.”  
   
“Please, Fury cares about you.”  
   
“Not true. They were all _care_ about me. Difference is, unlike Fury, we’ve all accepted the universal truth.”  
   
“Which is?”  
   
“Alpha’s matter more,” Tony grins, and then sighs, happily.  
   
“Are you touching yourself?”  
   
“Sorry, am I not supposed to?”  
   
“Tony, do you often touch yourself?”  
   
“You can say masturbation, it’s not a trick word.”  
   
“Do you?” Steve presses.  
   
“More so,” he says, pointedly, “now that you’re not here.”  
   
“How do you do it?”  
   
“Uh.” Tony swallows, shifts his ass. “I just sort of – I don’t know. The way I’m doing it now.”  
   
“Describe it to me.”  
   
He inhales, exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says, thickly. “I – have my hand in my panties. I’m just sort of… playing with myself.”  
   
“Are you wet?” Steve’s voice is rough. He clears it. “Have you soaked through?”  
   
“Not yet. I am wet, though.”  
   
“Do you ever play with your hole?”  
   
Tony nods, and then remembers Steve can’t see. “Yeah,” he says, licking his bottom lip. “I do.”  
   
“Can I hear you?”  
   
The question throws him. “Huh?”  
   
“I want to hear you play with your hole. If that’s okay.”  
   
Tony slides his hand past his cock, fingers gently rubbing slick around his rim. “I’m not very – vocal,” he admits.  
   
“I know. That upsets me, sometimes. I think, who’s told Tony that he should be quiet in bed?”  
   
“You’ve been known to enjoy a gag on occasion.”  
   
“I don’t know, Tony. Sometimes it felt good, to have you like that. It’s not fun if I know how other people have used them on you. It ruins the dynamic, makes it – I don’t like it, anymore.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, gently fucks two fingers into himself. He sighs. “Well,” he says, “don’t let that stop you. I wouldn’t want you to – to not do something you enjoy on my account. Sir,” he adds.  
   
There’s brief silence, the sound of fabric. Then, skin on skin. Steve grunts. “You going to call me Sir, Tony?”  
   
“If you like it. You know I love pleasing you, Sir.”  
   
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice thick. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Tony.”  
   
“Missed me?” He asks softly, teasing himself, “Or missed this?”  
   
“You,” Steve answers, immediately. “You’re the cleverest person I know, did you know that?”  
   
“I’m the cleverest person anyone knows.” Tony doesn’t want to come tonight. He’s tired. He’s not in the mood. He’ll come, if Steve wants to hear him. He thinks, maybe I can fake it. It’s not like he’ll know the difference.  
   
He pulls his hand out of his panties, swipes them on the duvet. Curls on his side and goes back to stroking his neck, listening to Steve’s soft groans. He wishes he could be there. He wishes he was there to make those noises come out of Steve’s mouth. “I love it when _you_ make noise,” he tells him, voice thick with sleep. “You make such pretty sounds, did you know that, Steve?”  
   
“Do I?”  
   
“Mmm hmm,” Tony smiles, lazily, eyes closed. “Like a bitch. But – better than that. I like it, it’s like listening to someone be… it makes you sound vulnerable.”  
   
Steve is quiet, for a while. “Why do you like that, Tony?” He asks, inquisitive.  
   
He shrugs a shoulder, forgets Steve can’t see. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I guess it’s like – taboo, maybe. Or, it means I can trust you, I think. If you can be vulnerable, it means, you trust me. It means you’re not always scary.”  
   
“Do I scare you?”  
   
“You, _you,”_ Tony waves his hand, “not as in, you specifically. All of you.”  
   
“Alphas,” Steve realises.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony yawns, “I’m not playing with myself anymore. I’m too tired.”  
   
“Are you touching your neck?”  
   
“Mmm hmm.”  
   
“Well, you keep doing that, Tony. After your gala, with Pierce. Don’t stay at the hotel. Come home, see me.”  
   
“Home?”  
   
“To my apartment,” Steve corrects. “I would like my sheets to smell of you, Tony. I’d like to just – have you in my bed. In _my_ bed, not in some random room in the tower.”  
   
Tony smiles, dozily. “You’re such a traditionalist,” he sighs.  
   
“Do you like that?”  
   
“I must,” he half-laughs, sleepy. “Why else would I subject myself to it? I think – you’re so _certain,_ Steve, you know what I mean?”  
   
“I don’t think so.”  
   
“You’re just so… so… solid. You don’t even know how much I trust you, Steve. You don’t even realise how little I trust alphas in general.”  
   
“I think I might,” Steve tells him, and Tony is too tired to decipher what he means.  
   
“What am I supposed to do when I meet someone so good, who for some – inexplicable reason, wants me? At first – at first, I used you, Steve. You know that, don’t you? I thought, I could twist you, I could manipulate you. Always, with the blowjobs, and the gags, and your awful nightmares. I liked you, I liked your protection more. They don’t touch me when I’m with you, no one dares.”  
   
“I know,” Steve says, quietly.  
   
“And then, at some point… it hurt my _heart,”_ Tony groans, rolling onto his back. “You don’t even realise, when I saw you in that cell. You just wanted to keep me safe. You were so scared.”  
   
“I felt the same way, Tony. When I saw what Killian had done.”  
   
Tony swallows, and for some strange reason, smiles. “Aren’t we fucked up, Steve? Aren’t we just two screwed up people?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I guess we are.”  
   
Tony’s eyes droop. He strokes his throat. “Next week,” he says, “I’ll be at yours, as soon as the gala’s finished. I expect the red carpet, Steven.”  
   
“You know I can’t deny you.”  
   
“Then I’ll see you then. Pass through your address.”  
   
“Will do. Hope you sleep well, Tony.”  
   
Tony yawns again, rolls onto his side. “Bye, Steve,” he sighs, “love you.”  
   
There’s an awkward, sticky silence, and for a moment, Tony just can’t think why. “Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll – see you, Tony. Next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ofc, your thoughts on their dynamic and how their thoughts motivations come across are very appreciated


	16. photograph

Tony doesn’t like DC. Times like this, he misses Malibu, his wide open home, his quiet street, the private stretch of beach. His fortress, overlooking the ocean. New York, he can manage – he grew up there. But here, the alphas in suits and dark glasses, the betas with brand new cellphones and heel clicking on concrete – he doesn’t like it. It’s politics, he decides. It’s the politics he hates.  
   
Still. He figures he owes Pierce a favour, what with his poor show after the helicarrier debacle. He’s wearing a new pair of panties beneath his neatly-pressed pants, a rose-pink he thinks Steve will appreciate when he takes them off tonight. Preferably, with his teeth.  
   
“You don’t mind,” Pierce says regretfully, kissing his hand. “I know this is torture.”  
   
“Not at all,” Tony lies, nodding and smiling at a passing General. “Just remind me – this is for – “  
   
“Sustainable development.”  
   
“Sustainable development,” he parrots. “Great. I love that. A worthy cause.”  
   
Pierce’s smile is sardonic. “They’re here for you, you know, half of them.”  
   
“Well I’ll try to give them a good show.”  
   
Pierce makes his apologies, tells him he’ll find him before he leaves. Tells him, he doesn’t recommend the food, and it’s an open bar. Tony helps himself, tips generously, and lets people crawl over him for the next four and a half hours.  
   
At some point, the sky begins to darken. He checks his watch; it’s probably not rude to be leaving soon. He’s done his job, played his role. He should seek out Pierce, make his apologies, thank him for the very pleasant, if not slightly boring, evening. He frowns at his wrist, shakes down his sleeve, sips his champagne. He’s aware of an irritating fly, buzzing for his attention.  
   
“Do I know you?” He asks.  
   
“Yeah,” the man says, “we met a few years back. I called you a whore, Captain America made me apologise.”  
   
Ah. Tony snorts. “Sorry,” he says, not really meaning it, “he does that.”  
   
“He’s not here tonight.”  
   
“He probably has better things to do.”  
   
The man smirks. “Probably,” he agrees, “I’m surprised you have time for us little people.”  
   
“I don’t. I’m here as a favour.” Tony turns. “Are we done here, or?”  
   
“No, actually – I was wondering, could we let bygones be bygones? I have a photograph, my nephew – you know, he’s omega. And he just thinks you’re the bees knees.”  
   
The man’s an ass, but Tony can’t deny a kid. “Sure,” he says, “you got a pen?”  
   
“I do,” the man smiles, fishing it out of his pocket, clicking the end. Tony searches the floor for any other names to tick off his list – if everything goes well, he can be in his car in less than an hour. “Here – it’s one of my favourites.”  
   
Tony smiles at him, falsely, takes the photo. He –  
   
“What’s wrong?” The man is asking. “You look great.”  
   
Tony needs to ask, _where did you get this?_ He wants his mouth to make those words, and for them to come out strongly, steadily, like he doesn’t care, like the whole thing is ludicrous. He can see it so clearly in his mind, exactly how he _should_ act to show that he’s completely unaffected by the picture in front of him, that it doesn’t matter, that there isn’t sweat on the back of his neck, that his skin isn’t prickling.  
   
“Where,” he starts, and then his throat closes up, chokes him. “Where did you get this,” he asks, and his voice breaks humiliating, squeaks upwards, high-pitched.  
   
The man licks his lips. He says something, and Tony doesn’t hear him, even though he needs to, he needs – there’s a buzzing in his ears. “Look,” the man says, clicking the pen in his face, laughing, pushing the picture at him. “He’ll be so disappointed.”  
   
“Don’t touch me, don’t – “ Tony slaps at the man’s hands, in his space; the picture goes fluttering to the ground, the pen rolls off. The sound of it is magnified. Everything is very loud, and very quiet. His pulse is thudding in his temples. It’s blurry for him, now, everything is; sweat or disassociation, palms sweating, skin pricking, panic cascading across his head. He hasn’t been like this, not this bad, not in decades. He’s been touched and assaulted and tortured in all the years since and nothing, not the wormhole, not Killian, has made him this bad.  
   
He’s got to get out. He’s got to get safe.  
   
His feet feel so clumsy. He reaches down to grab at the picture but his hands are shaking so bad he can’t get a good grip, he thinks the man is laughing at him, and he might say something but it’s slurred and smeared to his ears. Sounds move slowly. “Get out of my way,” he hears himself beg, pushing past the bulk of the man, stumbling away from the wall.  
   
In a secluded hallway, he crawls behind a heavy red curtain, pushes himself between the wall and the window, and curls up like a child. _You’re not there,_ he thinks, desperately, _it will never happen again. You are safe, you are safe, you are safe._ The fingers in his mouth, hooking his cheek, laughing when they slapped his face and coaxed him out of hiding places.  
   
He can’t breathe. He makes himself as small as he can, no one will find him, he will snap and bite his teeth at them. He had done this, he remembers now, crawled away during the worst of it and tried to make himself small, to plead, but they had taken his ankles and dragged him across the floor, and it had burned his chest as he clawed at carpet, and after he’d found microfibres under his nails –  
   
Stop it, stop, enough. Pull yourself together, Tony, it wasn’t as bad as all that. It does no one any good to think about these things, and it’s no good telling tales, you just make it worse. Who is going to believe him when they see those pictures, the lines of coke, the stupid fucking crystal tumblers and the ashtrays? Worse than a laughing-stock – you think MIT are going want you – no, you think SHIELD is going to want this on their plate, it’s a disgrace, it’s –  
   
He puts his hand in his hair and pulls. _Breathe, breathe,_ it’s not that bad. In perspective: one photo. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it, you’re making it worse, constantly you’re making it worse.  
   
 _You stupid, fucked up bitch,_ he thinks. You stupid bitch. You can’t hide these things forever.  
   
His cellphone is in his pocket. He fumbles for it, now, frantically dries his swollen cheeks. The screen is blurry, his hands are shaking. His thumb hovers over _Steve,_ and he thinks, _if you tell him, he’ll never forgive you._ It’s not nice, it’s not pleasant, it’s true. Steve knows – Steve has always told him – the way he behaves reflects on them, it does. Tony knows this. If anyone sees this picture – if anyone ever –  
   
Steve might be angry, Tony thinks, lethargic. He might be disgusted. But at least Tony would hear his voice.  
   
It rings out, and he doesn’t try again.  
   
Instead, covers his eyes with his hands, drawing up his legs, elbows on knees. He hides, until he thinks it might be safe to come out.  
   
At some point, maybe after an hour, maybe a few more, he hears voices in the hallway. “… immediately,” they’re saying, harried, almost frantic. “No excuse, if he’s left this building, it will be on camera.”  
   
“Sir,” someone replies, respectfully, and some of the footsteps fall away. Tony blinks hurriedly, shuffles himself back further against the wall. He can’t even scent well, because his nose is blocked with mucus.  
   
“If he’s been taken, I want a block on all vans leaving the city,” Pierce is saying, shoes clipping against the marble floor. “They won’t have got far. Rumlow, with me. We take each floor, there’s a chance he drank too much and – “  
   
Tony’s attempt to hide has disturbed the curtain blocking him; he hears how their voices trail off, and suddenly their footsteps are quiet. They’ve found him.  
   
He’s scattering desperately into the wall when they draw back the curtain. He must make some kind of noise, a whimper, or wordless beg, but he’s too worked up to decipher his own sound. Rumlow has a gun, drawn and braced on his wrist. And Pierce is holding up his hands, shushing him the way you would a frightened animal, which is all he is now, really.  
   
He’s saying something, but it’s blurry in Tony’s ears. He strains his eyes desperately to his peripherals, pulls back his chin, as fucking submissive as he comes. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Pierce is saying, _easy there, easy. It’s alright. Easy there, Tony. Steady._  
   
Hands on his shoulders, his wrist, pulling him up. The worst part is, Tony doesn’t even fight it; he goes limp, completely, and hears himself making an awful keening moan, the most he can do just using his body-weight to try and stay in his safe corner. “No,” he hears Pierce say, “no, no Rumlow – leave him, he’s not – just don’t touch him.”  
   
And then no one touches him.  
   
“Back off,” Pierce mutters, “just give him some space, you’re upsetting him. Here – tell them we’ve found him. Tell them – it was nothing, he wasn’t missing, he just bumped into an old friend and lost track of time.”  
   
Pierce is covering for him, Tony realises, and it’s the first coherent thought he’s had in hours.  
   
This time, when he approaches, he doesn’t speak; he’s holding out a handkerchief, monogrammed, which is a stupid detail to notice at a time like this. “Here,” he says, gently. “Don’t worry. The hallway is blocked off. Take your time, From Stark.”  
   
Tony’s hand is still shaking. He takes it, cautiously, eyes lowered, head bowed. He dries his eyes, wipes mucus from his face.  
   
“May I?” Pierce asks, quietly, holding out his hand. Tony understands. He gives it back, and lets Pierce pat at the places on his head where he’s pulled his hair so hard he’s bled.  
   
His wrist brushes against his nose. He scents…  
   
“That’s it,” Pierce soothes. “Steady now, that’s it. Not so bad, huh? No, here – it’s fine. It’s not rude, you can scent me, if you want.”  
   
Tony isn’t – his head isn’t great. He plaintively snuffles along the scent point on Pierce’s wrist. The skin is surprisingly soft. He doesn’t mind Pierce brushing off an errant tear from his cheek; the touch feels clarifying, sharp, comforting.  
   
He keeps his wrist there, urges Tony to scent, gently. He feels himself calming, miraculous, the scent of a non-toxic alpha, someone he knows is safe, someone he knows has power, someone he knows can stop them all from doing things to him.  
   
“Oh, Christ,” he hears Rumlow mutter. Crumpled picture, in his hand, and – even _he_ sounds disgusted. “Pierce, this – Jesus, it’s – “  
   
Tony pulls his nose away, twists his head back against the wall. He can’t stand that, now. “He said,” he croaks, “he said, if I went back, after, they would burn them. I watched them burn them, it was the deal. That was the deal.”  
   
“I know,” Pierce says, comfortingly, “I’m sure it was.”  
   
“But I went _back,”_ Tony presses. “He arranged it, I had to pay – pay reparation,” and he feels his gorge rising, covers his mouth with his hand. His head spins, his stomach revolts, and –  
   
It’s just one more indignity really, isn’t it? The smell of distress must be upsetting them, because he can scent Pierce getting that odd, protective, angry tinge in response. “It’s fine,” he tells him, “you’ve had a shock. You smell very stressed, Tony – don’t worry about that, someone will clean it. I think you need to be somewhere safe, don’t you think? Not in the hallway, it’s not safe in the hallway.”  
   
Tony agrees. If Pierce says it’s not safe, it’s not safe. “Easy now,” he’s saying, “I’m can’t pick you up, From Stark, so can you stand? If not, Rumlow will help, won’t you Brock?”  
   
It’s the worst thing in the world to have Rumlow pull him up, offer to carry him, perfectly gentlemanly but – but laughing, behind his eyes. He shuts his eyes, staggers away, feels Pierce’s hands on his waist, on his shoulder. He’s draping him in his coat; that’s possessive, comforting, yes, but a signal, too. And like this, with Pierce’s scent all around him –  
   
He lets him grip him gently by the back of the neck, guide him to the elevator. “Thank you, Rumlow,” he hears Pierce murmur, “I can take it from here. Just make sure the men know I have Stark, safe and sound.”  
   
“I should,” Tony frowns, rubs his nose, absently. “Call Steve. We have a date.”  
   
“Do you,” Pierce says softly, leading him to his suite. “That’s good, Tony.”  
   
“Will you call him?”  
   
“I will,” Pierce smiles at him, gently, letting open the door. “Here. Nice and safe now, hmm? Why don’t you put yourself on the bed, I’ll get some water.”  
   
Tony’s head is spinning. He doesn’t want Pierce to leave him. He wants to bury his head into his neck.  
   
“Dad said, they’d burnt them. That was the deal.”  
   
“I know, Tony,” Pierce says sympathetically, holding out the glass. He drinks it all. “You don’t need to worry about all that.”  
   
“I do,” Tony croaks, “it looks bad on all of us, me especially.”  
   
“Is that what Rogers told you?”  
   
Tony nods.  
   
“Well, he’s old fashioned. I’ll take care of it, Tony. I’ll handle it. I’m begging you – don’t worry. When I take charge, things tend to go well, don’t they?”  
   
Tony nods, bleary.  
   
“I keep you safe, don’t I Tony?”  
   
Pierce’s figure is blurry. “You protect me,” he slurs.  
   
“That’s right. Put your head down, go on. On the pillow. You’ll feel better lying down.”  
   
The pillows, the sheets, are somehow cloaked in his scent; he’s shivering, barely-there, letting Pierce move him, take off his shoes and his socks. His face is smushed into the pillow and he’s just huffing the scent buried there, eyes half-closed, drooling.  
   
“There’s sick on your clothes, Tony,” Pierce tells him, directly into his ear, breath hot. “It smells like distress. If you keep them on, it will upset you. I am going to take off your clothes, now. You’re going to let me.”  
   
That makes sense. Tony can’t move, anyway, he’s so tired. Pierce rolls him over, starts on the buttons of his shirt. Tony’s eyes are shut. His jaw is slack. When Piece touches the clasp of his pants, he panics, tries to lift his head, and is greeted with a wrist, proffered under his nose. Pierce scents calm, and safe. Tony is calm and safe. He falls back against the pillows.  
   
He moves him, picks up his wrists to pull off his shirt, slides it out from under his shoulders. Tony’s arms fall limply back onto the bed when he’s done. He drags down Tony’s pants, inch by inch. Then there’s a hand in his hair:  
   
“You’ve made a mess in your panties,” Pierce tells him, roughly. “I need to take them off. You’re not going to create a fuss.”  
   
“’kay,” Tony mumbles, not really sure what Pierce means, but not… caring. Not knowing enough to care. He’s almost asleep, deep somewhere, anyway. He realises at some point that he’s naked, but he’s not cold, and so…  
   
He flinches when Pierce touches him. “Easy,” he’s saying, “just roll over. That’s it, easy, easy. Head on pillow, just like that. Breathe in deeply, Tony. Can you do that for me? Just take a good deep breath, it’ll calm you down. I’m telling you to do it, so you should.”  
   
Tony does. He inhales the scent deeply. Colours bloom behind his eyes.  
   
Pierce cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, lifts up his head. He tsks, and dabs at a string of drool from the corner of his mouth. “Good boy,” he says, as if Tony has done something, and then strokes him back down onto the pillow, scratches his nails absently against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re the most responsive omega I’ve ever seen, did you know that, Tony? Unbelievable. Even at your age, you just feel it all so keenly, don’t you?” He rubs his knuckles behind Tony’s ear; he shivers.  
   
He pinches his ear lobe, pulls. It’s a sharp pain, grounding – Tony’s been punished like that before, pulled by his ear. It tugs on the gland, makes him whimper. Pierce’s lips are so close to his skin. “You’re going to listen to me,” he whispers, and gently kisses his cartilage. “Because you want to listen to me. I am going to tell you what to do. You will do it, because you want to do what I tell you.”  
   
 _I want to wear whatever you want me to wear,_ Tony thinks, drowsily, but he doesn’t know why.  
   
“Don’t think about what I’m telling you,” Pierce murmurs, “just do it. If you do that, you’re a good boy.” Tony shivers. “You will be safe and protected if you do what I say. No one will touch you if you do exactly what I say, always.” He strokes behind Tony’s ear.  
   
Tony is asleep. He must be asleep, now, because there’s not a single part of him that’s thinking of anything at all, except for the touch and the words, which must be obeyed.    
   
“You had a scare earlier. You were shown a very compromising picture of yourself. In that picture, I know that people were hurting you. Shh, settle, Tony. Settle,” he grips Tony’s hair, pushes his head into the pillow, “breathe,” he urges.  
   
Tony does. He can’t remember.  
   
“It was very good that you trusted me, Tony. So long as you trust me, no one is going to ever hurt you again. Not any alpha, not Cain, not Killian, not Stone, not Richards, not even Rogers.”  
   
 _Tell me what to do,_ Tony might think.  
   
Wetness against his cheek. Tony frowns, mumbles; Pierce touching him with his tongue. He squirms, tries to pull away. “You’re not going to fight me,” he tells him, “you’re going to let me do whatever I want.”  
   
Tony thinks, _huh?_ And then Pierce puts his head in the pillow, he breathes, and he forgets what.  
   
“Look at me, Tony. Open your eyes.”  
   
Tony tries, because… he has to listen, for a reason. Pierce is blurry, more colour than man. Everything is blurry, shapes and streaks, not real.  
   
“You want to kiss me,” Pierce says, voice low, quiet. Tony doesn’t even know if he’s speaking. He thinks, maybe the voice is everything. Maybe even, the voice is coming from inside of his head. “ _You_ want to kiss me. You want to thank me. You want to pay reparation, because I’ve helped you, and because I took care of you. You want to kiss me. It’s your choice, Tony.”  
   
Tony should, or, Tony does. He slopes onto his forearms, pushes himself up, lips slack. _I want to kiss him,_ he thinks, or, he knows.  
   
“This is how you thank people,” Pierce tells him. “You let people use your body. It’s what you were bred for. You were bred to belong to other people, weren’t you? You know this.”  
   
Tony nods. He inches closer, drags himself forward, fingers in Pierce’s vest.  
   
“You want to do more than kiss me,” Pierce tells him, voice kind, and warm. “You want to feel safe. You know that only I can make you safe. Only I can protect you.”  
   
Tony presses his nose into Pierce’s throat. _I want to kiss him,_ he thinks, vacantly. _I want to kiss him._  
   
His lips are dry. They’re slack. Tony kisses him, and Pierce doesn’t kiss him back.  
   
Hand in his hair. Pulls back his head. Tony doesn’t fight it.  
   
“I can’t protect you,” Pierce says, sadly. “I can’t help you, Tony. Not while the Captain thinks you’re his.”  
   
 _I’m his,_ Tony thinks, absently.  
   
“You’re going to tell him,” Pierce says, sternly. “You’re going to see him. Tomorrow.”  
   
 _I want to kiss him,_ Tony knows.  
   
“You will tell him the truth. That you wanted to kiss me. That you wanted to pay reparation. You will tell him that it was your choice. You will tell him you have to, because you were bred to. It’s in your nature, Tony. Are you listening, now, this is important – it is in your nature to let others use your body. It is your place. The Captain doesn’t understand that. You will make him understand the truth.”  
   
 _It’s my place,_ Tony knows.  
   
He lets go of Tony’s hair. He can’t hold himself up. He pitches forward into Pierce’s shoulder, smears drool against his crisp white shirt. “There there,” he soothes, stroking his hair. “Shh. It hurts, doesn’t it? Being so open. Like a wound.”  
   
Tony is shaking. _It hurts,_ he thinks. He doesn’t know why. He’s crying. He doesn’t know why.  
   
“Sometimes, it has to hurt. We have to hurt, to be better. You might have to hurt soon, Tony, but it’ll be worth it in the long run. The pain will be good. Order, Tony. Order through pain.”  
   
 _Order through pain,_ Tony thinks. _I want to kiss him. I know my place. Order through pain. My place. I want to kiss him. I know my place. I know, order through pain. I know, I want to kiss him. I know my place. I know order through pain. I know my place. I know I want to kiss him. I know order through pain. I know –_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh yikes
> 
> so yeah. i don't know if pierce's vague intentions are any clearer but..... there u go i guess. i always said this story would be dark af. although happy ending, always.
> 
> would really like to know what people can tell about tony's history -- like, what was the picture, what do u think happened, etc. it helps me know if i'm showing enough without telling, if that makes sense


	17. truth

Tony is still wearing his coat, picture folded inside the inner pocket. The light is too bright, glaring; standing out on the street, he needs to hold up his hand against the sun, hungover or blitzed out or post-nervous breakdown, whatever the fuck he is.  
   
Hands shaking. He flags down the cab, tells them Steve’s apartment building in a clipped, short voice. It’s burning a hole inside him, by his ribs. He should tear it up. Instead, he turns his nose into the collar of the Pierce’s coat, takes comfort from the scent. He wishes he wouldn’t.  
   
He had woken up late, wearing last night’s clothes, except now they are clean. He vaguely remembers embarrassing himself, throwing up bile in the hallway of the hotel. He doesn’t think too hard about who changed them, and why, and he doesn’t think about Pierce’s fucking friendly eyes, kind, and the absolute myriad of ways he humiliated himself last night.  
   
He’s going to tell Steve. He doesn’t know what he needs to tell him, he just knows he does. Explain something. Everything.  
   
They’d shared a bed last night, him and Pierce. Tony can’t remember. He knows he probably came onto him – stupid, pathetic, drunk and frightened, it’s the exact kind of insane response he has in those situations. He thinks they didn’t fuck; Tony woke up dry, sheets clean. But his throat is bruised, and bitten, his lips swollen. He pulls the collar of his coat tighter around his throat. He hates himself. He hates himself so, fucking much.  
   
He thinks, this is what will happen:  
   
He’s going to turn up at Steve’s wearing another’s alphas clothes, having missed their date with no call, no explanation. When Steve asks, why, all he’ll have to show for it is a picture of – of that. He’ll have to say, I was upset, Steve will want to know why. He’ll show him the picture. And Steve _will_ think, typical.  
   
It is typical. The fact he let those things happen to him, back then, the fact that there are still photos (of course there are, you idiot, do you think people like that are the kind of people to stick to their word?), the fact that it’s just one more fuck up in a long line of fuck ups. Tony, who can’t keep it in his pants, Tony, who sleeps with other alpha on date night. Jesus, he’s sick. He’s so fucking sick.  
   
He just wanted this to work, is all. He had thought – if he had Steve, he would be happy. That he might be happy, with someone like that, who kisses his cheek before he goes to work, and cuts up his toast into little squares when he makes him breakfast. Why did he think he even deserved it? And what has he done – why would something that good ever happen to someone like him?  
   
“I’m so sick,” Tony croaks, watching the rain on the window. “I’m so fucking sick.”  
   
The driver frowns at him in the rearview. “What?”  
   
Tony rests his head on the glass, screws his eyes shut.  
   
“You, uh – you ill, From Stark? You need a doctor?”  
   
He thinks, he can remember what happened. Pierce’s face had been close. Crouched by the bed. Tony had already taken off his clothes, desperate bitch that he is. He’d been saying something, voice kind, soft. Tony remembers, distinctly, the feel of his lips when he leaned up to kiss him. He remembers, _distinctly,_ that Pierce’s had been slack in response. That he hadn’t kissed him back.  
   
Shame burns through him like a heat fever. Stupid bitch. Pierce is a better man than any of them, he doesn’t need _sex_ to extend his protection. He thumbs the bruises on his throat; what had happened then, he wonders. Does he remember Pierce on top of him, leaving those marks? Steve will say, how could you, Tony. He’s an old man. Couldn’t you have kept it in your pants, not even for one night? What reason did you have to act that way? _That? That’s_ your reason? A picture of you, being a slut? Well I’m glad it upset you, Tony, it upsets me, too. Am I supposed to think my omega did things like _that,_ with all those people? _And_ there are photos? People are going to know. It’s just not going to work. I wash my hands of it all, Stark. You’re more trouble than your worth.  
   
Dad had said – look, he’d always been clear. And Tony has made mistakes since, but Dad was always right about this: once it’s out there, it’s out there. There is no ever smooth sailing. The boat has holes, Tony. You can plug them, for a time, you can scoop the water with a bucket. All it takes is one bad storm.  
   
 _I’m sorry, Dad,_ he thinks, frowning, buffing his eye with his fist. _It’s my legacy,_ he’d said, _it’s my legacy you’ve ruined, Tony. And for what? Three hours of action?_  
   
“Wait, wait,” Tony blurts, opening the car door.  
   
A bus, passing by, honks it horn, loudly, aggressive. “What the fuck you doing?” The cab driver asks, hitting the break.  
   
“Sorry, I – “ Tony’s head is full of buzzing, his hands shaking, jittery, as he pours through his wallet and pulls out cash, “I need – wrong place, I’ve got to go somewhere first. Here,” he says, throwing it at the driver, unclipping his seatbelt, “sorry. Sorry, for – sorry.”  
   
“Hold on – you okay? Do you need a hospital, or – “  
   
“Fine,” Tony croaks, sliding out of the door, onto the main road; another car swerves to avoid him, he has to dash across the street. This neighbourhood is utterly unfamiliar. He ducks into the alley next to a café, braces his hand on the wall, breathes. His hands are shaking. It starts to rain.  
   
He twists, sinks down into a puddle. Breathes in and out, even though it feels like his heart wants to beat out of his chest.  
   
   
He knocks.  
   
Steve is wearing sweatpants, a nice faded T-shirt that’s too tight. His hair is ruffled, he has a shadow on his jaw. “Surprise,” Tony says, like he’s fine, like this is a cute trick.  
   
“Tony,” Steve replies, carefully.  
   
“Dinner,” he explains. “We’re still on for dinner, right?”  
   
Steve is very – calm, would be the word Tony’s looking for. His face gives way nothing. “I was under the impression you wouldn’t make it,” he says, voice cool.  
   
“Who gave you that impression?” Tony tries to joke.  
   
“Rumlow.”  
   
Tony swallows. He does not drop his smile, even though his cheeks hurt, even though his eyes are burning. “What, uh – what did Rumlow say?”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says quietly. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”  
   
“But he must have said something,” Tony presses, lodging himself between the door and door-frame. “He must have, right? I think – whatever you heard, I can explain – “  
   
“You can always explain,” Steve tells him, sadly. “I don’t know why I always listen.”  
   
“This is different.”  
   
“Is it?”  
   
“What did Rumlow say?”  
   
Steve frowns at him. “Why are you wet?”  
   
“I walked. From the hotel. What did Rumlow say?” He pleads.  
   
“You should dry off,” Steve seems to resign himself, widening the door. “Just – sit. On the couch.”  
   
Steve’s place is nice. Homely. There’s a record player in the corner, and it’s stuck on something nice and bluesey, mellow. The living room smells like smoke – Steve must’ve been smoking, but then, the smell makes him feel sick all over again.  
   
Tony sits, and Steve stands, hands in his pants’ pockets, looking down. Judgement, which is what he deserves. “Can I get you anything?”  
   
Tony sniffs, rubs his nose with his hand, shakes his head. “What did he tell you?” He asks again, bluntly, desperately.  
   
“That you went back with him,” Steve says, calmly. He doesn’t even sound angry. “With Pierce. To his hotel room.” And then, even softer, voice hurt: “You’re still wearing his coat.”  
   
Tony pulls it around his shoulders, self-conscious. “It wasn’t like that.”  
   
Steve doesn’t say anything. He reaches forward, peels back the collar of Tony’s shirt. There are bruises, sucked into his skin. He looks at them, and then at him. “I wondered why you didn’t show up,” he says, simply. Like it’s simple. An expectation.  
   
“It wasn’t like that,” he repeats, no longer sure. “I – this isn’t Killian. This isn’t like that, I was – I didn’t _sleep_ with him, I didn’t even plan on sleeping with him, I barely knew… Steve, I was – I – “  
   
‘I was’ what? Assaulted? No. Tortured? No. Shown a photo? It doesn’t quite seem to explain the severity of his response.  
   
“You didn’t plan on it,” Steve says, quietly, “but you did, anyway. Or at the very least, you did whatever caused those.” There’s no judgement behind his eyes, but they aren’t kind, either.  
   
Tony doesn’t have the words. “I,” he says again, but he can’t explain it. He can’t. He can’t talk about it, use speech to make real what happened, doesn’t want to. If he says, a man showed me a picture, he has to explain what the picture was. He can’t do that.  
   
“It’s fine,” Steve says, standing, turning away. This time, he seems disappointed. “I’m not like you, Tony. I’m monogamous, you know that.”  
   
“I know,” Tony says quietly, as if he needs to be chagrined, as if he’s at fault.  
   
“I could do it, before. When we were – I can’t give myself to a person I know… they can’t give themselves back,” he tells him, softly. “I’m sorry, Tony.”  
   
Tony feels vacant. “My fault.”  
   
“And Pierce,” Steve says, voice slightly reproachful. “I mean, _Pierce._ I could understand if – he’s an old man, Tony. He’s vulnerable like that, please. Don’t tell me… you wouldn’t, would you? Not really.”  
   
“He was kind to me,” Tony says quietly. “That’s all. He was just being kind.”  
   
“I think we should end this,” Steve tells him. “It’s not easy. It’s not fair of me to expect things of you that you don’t want or can’t do, and – I don’t want us to resent each other, Tony.” His voice is so soft. He sounds like he wants to cry.  
   
He sits there, and watches Steve slip through his fingers.  
   
“You’re shaking,” Steve frowns, taking his hand. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I know this is hard. It’s not what I want. But in the long-run – “  
   
Tony takes back his hand. “I was upset,” he hears himself say, distantly. “Pierce helped me, because I was – very upset. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I kissed him,” he remembers, but he can’t remember why. “I wanted to say thank you. But I wasn’t _thinking –_ clearly. I wasn’t.”  
   
“Why were you upset?” Steve doesn’t _sound_ sceptical, but he should.  
   
He feels his fingers curling around the crumpled photograph, pulling it free from his jacket pocket. He doesn’t want to see it again, so he shuts his eyes, holds it out. He doesn’t have the energy to speak. Steve takes it from his hand.  
   
Neither of them talk, for a long time.  
   
Eventually: “What is this,” Steve asks. His voice is level. Calm, almost. Which feel unbearably dangerous. He seems to realise that Tony can’t possibly answer, so instead he asks, “is this from a contract?”  
   
Tony can nod. Kinda, is the answer. But Steve won’t understand that.  
   
“How old are you? Eighteen?”  
   
He shakes his head.  
   
“Seventeen?”  
   
No.  
   
Steve can’t seem to find it in him to dare go lower; any other answer is equally horrific. He exhales, heavy, through his nostrils. “Tony,” he says, softly. “I’ve hidden it. Can you look at me?”  
   
Tony shakes his head again. No. He can’t. You can’t understand the shame until you’ve lived it. He doesn’t want to see recrimination, or worse, pity, in Steve’s eyes.  
   
“Someone showed it to you,” Steve pieces together, gently, “and you were upset. Pierce found you, and he took you somewhere safe. Oh, God,” he breathes, and Tony hears him shift, maybe to put his head in his hands.  
   
“I know,” Tony starts, “I know it looks bad.”  
   
“It looks awful,” Steve croaks, “Jesus, Tony.”  
   
He flinches. “Pierce is going to help me make it go away,” he says, eyes tightly shut. “Please. I know what people will think. Please don’t think that. It was a mistake. I made a mistake, it was a mistake. I didn’t want it, but it was too late, and…”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  
   
“I know – it’s important, how we’re viewed, and what people think of us,” Tony gets out in a rush, “I promise it won’t happen again. I won’t let you down, Steve, and if – if we could come to some agreement… I mean, if we could just put this behind us, and pretend it never happened – “  
   
“Tony, please look at me.”  
   
Tony twists away. He can’t.  
   
“Tony, I think you’re misunderstanding. Please, look at me.”  
   
He shakes his head.  
   
“Tony.”  
   
He has to obey, right now. He turns his head, opens his eyes, looks at a point past Steve’s head. “It’s awful,” he agrees, dully. “I’m awful.”  
   
“No,” Steve says, taking his hand. “I meant the picture. What they did to you, not you. What they did to you – “ he cuts himself off. “Fucking sadists, who would hurt a child like that,” he tells him, with barely controlled anger, “and a _monster_ of a father, who would put his son in that situation, with any of those risks.”  
   
“Don’t talk about him. Please, just – don’t fucking talk about it.”  
   
“I won’t. I’m not going to ask you anything. This is the last time I mention it. But Tony – fucking hell, don’t think I care about how this looks, or how people would – I don’t give a shit, you understand, Stark? I look out for my own. I look out for my fucking _own.”_  
   
Tony thinks it’s a relief. A release. He flicks his eyes to Steve’s finally, and they’re red. Even though he sounds so angry, scents like he could kill, Tony’s never felt so safe. Never, not ever. “It’s been rough,” he admits, “since you left. I haven’t been the same. I don’t know if it’s – what happened, or the helicarrier, I just… all those months.”  
   
Steve shuts his eyes, rubs his face. “I was hurting you, Tony,” he mutters, “more than you realise.”  
   
“I didn’t feel like I was being hurt,” Tony says honestly. “After Christmas – there was nothing at all. And we had been so _good_ before, hadn’t we? Just briefly. I felt like we had something, and I know I’m a… slow adjuster, I know…”  
   
“Tony, I need you to stop thinking this has anything to do with you,” Steve tells him. “It’s on me, okay? I couldn’t handle you with other people, I couldn’t handle seeing you hurt, I couldn’t handle the thought of you in harm’s way. There’s no mystery, it’s not – I thought if I left, I could be better for you. Or that – you would realise you didn’t need me, or want me. Or even like me, really.”  
   
“I like you,” Tony says. “How can you think I don’t?”  
   
“I don’t,” Steve assures. “Look away,” he says, because he’s crumpling the picture, folding it into squares. “Who gave this to you?”  
   
“I don’t – oh. That guy. I don’t know his name, we met him before, last year, at the gala where I sucked you off in the lounge. He called me a whore, you made him – pay reparation.”  
   
“The same man?”  
   
“Definitely, he even mentioned it.”  
   
Steve is quiet. “You told me, they do this kind of thing to upset you. Intentionally.”  
   
“Sure, the press do it sometimes, or…” he trails off.  
   
“But the same man? And first, he does it to me, to – what, put me off you, maybe. And then, a year later, he shows you that, because?”  
   
“He – wanted to upset me.”  
   
“But why?”  
   
“I don’t know, Steve. What do you want me to say? If I knew, I’d…” he huffs, puts his head in his hands. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I haven’t slept. Or I have, but – not well. You know.”  
   
“You’ll stay the night,” Steve says, like it’s a given.  
   
“If you’ll have me.”  
   
“Tony,” he chides, softly. “You want something to drink?”  
   
“Decaf.”  
   
“Alright. Get comfy. I have some spare toothbrushes under the sink, and you can wear one of my shirts. If you give me your clothes, I can have them washed by tomorrow.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony says, and then, grabbing Steve’s wrist, “thank you.”  
   
“Don’t,” Steve tells him. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”  
   
It’s good to get out of his dress-clothes, pull on one’s of Steve gratuitously over-sized sweaters. It falls to mid-thigh, the arms too long to be practical, but it’s comforting to hide his hands, smothered in fabric. Pierce’s coat is discarded; Tony pulls the collar over his nose and inhales _Steve,_ cotton and vanilla, fresh grass, metal.  
   
It’s strange, being in this room – _his_ room, a room Steve has made for himself. More intimate than his apartment in the tower (they always used Tony’s bed, anyway.)  
   
He hears crashing in the kitchen. It doesn’t sound like decaf. Aimlessly, he decides to investigate, although he suspects he knows the cause; Steve has – crushed a mug against the countertop. And now he’s bleeding. “It’s fine,” he says.  
   
“It’s not,” Tony tells him, “you’re going to drip blood in my coffee.”  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
Tony picks up his hand, examines the palm, softly. “You’re a silly boy, did you know that?” He murmurs.  
   
“It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”  
   
Tony looks up. Flicks his eyes upwards, rather. “You don’t need to act his way on my behalf, you know.”  
   
“It’s not just your behalf.” Steve takes back his palm. “Please go rest. You smell stressed. Ignore me making it worse, okay?”  
   
Tony doesn’t have fight in him to push it. “Okay,” he agrees. Steve’s blood scents like home. And it disturbs him.  
   
“I like you wearing my things,” he calls over his shoulder, as if to lighten the mood. Tony laughs, lies himself on the couch. It’s soft, deep, unlike the modern things he has back at the tower. Back home, he should say. “It’s cute.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, shutting his eyes. “Yeah, me too.”  
   
When he opens them again, it’s raining harder against the windows. The TV is on, CNN playing at a low volume. He frowns, muggy; Steve’s feet are on the coffee table, ankles crossed.  
   
Tony lifts his head. “What’s’it?” He mumbles, rubbing his hand over his face. Sleeping? He maybe sleeping. He – stop, think like a human: he must have fallen asleep.  
   
Steve’s hand is warm on his hip. “Hi,” he says, quietly. “I ordered a pizza.”  
   
“You should have – should have woken me,” Tony blinks, “how long did I…”  
   
“Not long. Couple hours. Relax. You want some? It’s your favourite.”  
   
Steve pokes a pizza box with his toe. Tony stares. “I was asleep?”  
   
“C’mere,” Steve says softly, pulling him up. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed tuckered out.”  
   
“Didn’t sleep last night, really. Didn’t eat, either,” and now he’s realising he’s _starving._  
   
“Have at,” Steve laughs, pulling the pizza box forward. “I can heat it up?”  
   
“Cold is fine,” Tony dismisses, because there’s now a pit in his stomach, “cold is good. Pizza is perfect.”  
   
“You want to talk about last night?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, mouth full of pizza. “Nothing to say,” he mumbles.  
   
“I don’t mean – I don’t mean history, or anything like that. I tried calling you back. I couldn’t get through.”  
   
“I was probably – “ _asleep._ Asleep. In Pierce’s bed. “I don’t know, zoned out, or whatever.”  
   
“And Pierce, he – “  
   
“Was good to me. I don’t know what Rumlow told you, but it wasn’t as if I planned…”  
   
Steve stretches out his arm across the back of the sofa, enough that Tony feels covered, secure. “I’m not saying this to be mad, or judgemental,” he starts, “I just need to know. Did you– at all, anything – with him?”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“I swear to God, this isn’t jealously talking.”  
   
“Oh yeah? What is it, then?” Tony wipes his mouth with a balled up tissue.  
   
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Just doesn’t feel right, him taking you up there like that, when you were…”  
   
“Vulnerable?”  
   
“I didn’t say that.”  
   
“You’re implying it.”  
   
“I don’t want to fight, Tony,” Steve says gently.  
   
“No,” Tony agrees, “neither do I.”  
   
“He’s not a bad man, I know that.”  
   
“But I’m a bad omega,” Tony fills in. “I took advantage of him, is that what you’re saying?”  
   
“No! I – Jesus, Stark,” Steve looks bewildered, “I’m not saying he’s a bad man, but even good men – make mistakes. Misread things, do things they shouldn’t. Even if you asked… he should have known better.”  
   
“It’s hard to control yourself, when we’re upset in that way.”  
   
“Can I be honest with you, Tony? There is no such thing as no self-control. It can be hard, sure – but if any alpha ever tells you they had no choice, they’re lying.”  
   
Tony smiles, hazy. As if he didn’t already know that. Still, it’s sweet Steve thought to enlighten him. “You’re a good man, Rogers,” he sighs, folding himself against his side.  
   
“I hope so,” he says, and then: “I want to be good for you, Tony.”  
   
Steve is. Steve can’t help himself. He’s good for everyone.  
   
“You know what it is, Steve?” He murmurs, letting his head rest fully against his chest, “I am… instrumental.”  
   
Steve nods. “You’re important. Crucial.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, smiles. “No. In the academic sense, understand? I’m instrumental. I’m – built for a purpose. Or, I’m used for a purpose. Not like you. You’re just – an end in yourself.”  
   
Steve looks at him like he’s crazy. “Tony, we’re all used for things.”  
   
He holds up his hands, counts off his fingers. “When people want to hurt you,” he starts, “do they torture you? Or do they try to upset me, to get to you?”  
   
Steve doesn’t say anything.  
   
“When people talk about me, do they say – you’re a clever guy, Tony. Or, you’re so beautiful, Tony. Or do they say, you were _bred_ for this. You were _made_ for it.”  
   
“You were,” Steve frowns, softly. “It’s like you were…”  
   
“Were?” Tony prompts.  
   
“It’s just, you’re so perfect,” Steve explains, “it’s like you were… were…”  
   
“Put on this earth for you?” Tony says, gently. “Maybe, I just exist. Maybe I don’t have to always exist for someone else.”  
   
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, if I’ve ever – I never meant – “  
   
“No,” Tony says quietly, letting him cup his cheek, “I like it, though. Sometimes. When you say, bred for this, I like to think – maybe I was. That it’s where I belong, to just be with you. Made for you. There’s a lot of security in that, Steve.”  
   
Steve kisses his throat, gentle. “You don’t realise what you do to me,” he murmurs, thumbs at Tony’s wrists.  
   
Tony smiles, hazy, cups the back of his head. “I do,” he says, honestly.  
   
“Cheat,” he snorts against his skin, nipping at his earlobe. “I don’t even want to punish you for it. Just want to hear you feel good.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “Steve,” he sighs.  
   
“Tony.”  
   
“Steve, I – I’m not in the mood.”  
   
Steve pulls back. “Oh.”  
   
“Yeah.” He smiles, uneasy, wraps his arms around himself. “I’m tired. I mean – I want to, obviously, I always want to. We can,” he adds, already regretting his spontaneous act of self-control, “if you want. I’m sorry, what am I saying – I come here, dead of night soaking wet, eat your food, pass out on you…” he lurches forward, to start crawling onto Steve’s lap.  
   
Steve sort of – ducks, catches Tony over the shoulders with his arm. “It’s fine,” he says, easily, kissing the crown of his head. “You want to go to bed?”  
   
Tony pauses. “To sleep?”  
   
“Yeah, Tony. To sleep. Unless – I can take the couch – “  
   
“No,” he blurts, “I want you. Don’t be stupid, I wouldn’t – c’mon.” He stands, takes Steve’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ur thoughts, as always, are loved
> 
> next chapter is...................................................
> 
> rough. like, really rough. like, bust out those warnings, hold onto ur hats. it's going to be really, really rough.


	18. garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *honestly this is the darkest chapter yet. I guess there needed to be more angst. Can’t have them getting too happy.*
> 
> Warnings for sexual assault. No rape, but.... yeah. Not good.

He lives with Steve for three more weeks, because he’s hiding from something.  
   
He doesn’t know what, exactly. He switches off his cell, and never turns it back on. Steve goes to work in the morning – even when he’s not on a mission, he has a strict routine. He likes to use the specialist gym at the Triskelion, and do his paperwork in the office he has there. He’s always done by lunch, on those days. Tony will meet him, and they’ll eat together in small restaurants that Steve gets recommended by other people. Or, Steve will come home, and Tony will cook for him.  
   
At the end of those three weeks, Steve says he has a mission. Top secret, unless you’re Tony – he and Natasha are heading out, some emergency called ‘Lemurian Star’. He might be gone a few days. Gently, he suggests Tony takes up Pierce on his offer for his granddaughter’s birthday party. Tony doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to see Pierce, or any of them. He wants to stay in Steve’s apartment, in his room, in his bed, in his arms, where he knows it’s safe, always.  
   
He doesn’t know _why_ he doesn’t feel safe. At best, it’s just because he’s embarrassed himself enough already, and doesn’t want to face Pierce so soon. At worst – he can’t explain it. Like the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end. Like, the walls have eyes. Like he’s being watched, or worse. Pierce’s coat is still slung over the back of a chair in Steve’s kitchen. He should return it. He needs to return it.  
   
When Pierce holds out his arms, embraces him, Tony forgets why he was ever worried in the first place. That was stupid. It’s safe here. He knows it. Just – knows it. Instinctively. The hairs on the back of his neck flatten. He makes pointless, trivial conversation, and lets the children sit on his knee, ask him about Iron Man, ask him if _they_ can be Iron Man. No suit, Tony has to tell them, sadly. He didn’t think it would be appropriate, a suit at a child’s party.  
   
“You’re good with them,” a man says, approvingly. “All that choice, hmm? It’s just stopped you from doing what you love.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees, letting the baby grip his fingers, babble happily. This one is sweet. Someone had given her to him, and he’s lost the mother. He’ll hold onto her as long as he can. Pierce’s garden smells sweet, like roses, freshly mown grass. Tony puts his nose to the baby’s head, inhales; she smells sweet, too. Perfect, like – like powder and strawberry soap.  
   
“My great-niece,” Pierce explains, smiling down him, head haloed in – soft yellow, soft breeze. He brings the freshly mown grass with him, the smell like… like when Tony would sit in the garden with his mom, and he’d make necklaces out of the stems of flowers. “I should probably be returning her to Anna, the children are leaving now, Tony.”  
   
It occurs to Tony that’s he probably been bad – no, rude, sitting here with the baby all afternoon. Still, he’s sad. “They’re leaving?” He asks, bereft. “Don’t they want to stay?”  
   
He had promised he would show them how to make the daisy-chains. They’d wanted him to show them how Iron Man worked. “Next time,” Pierce smiles, nuzzling the baby’s nose, cradling her in his arms.  
   
When he disappears, Tony is content to sit on the bench, head tipped towards the sun, pleasantly buzzed. He has a sudden thought, he thinks – hey, did I drink something? He only had some of the fruit punch. He doesn’t drink around children. But the thought pretty much scatters when Pierce’s granddaughter runs up to him, tells him _thank you From Stark!_ For the video game he bought her and wraps her arms around his neck. She’s tugged away by her mother. Tony thinks, she looks unhappy. Pierce’s daughter, he means. She looks sad.  
   
“You ready?” Pierce says. Tony blinks. The sun has shifted in the sky. What had he been thinking about? He can’t remember. Minutes had stretched by, and he hadn’t thought of anything at all.  
   
“Ready for what?” Tony asks.  
   
Pierce offers his arm. Tony takes it. “I have a gift for you,” he says.  
   
Tony laughs. “I like gifts,” he says.  
   
“Tell me,” Pierce starts as they walk over to the house, “did the Captain tell you when he’d be back?”  
   
“From the Star? Sometime tonight, I thought.”  
   
Pierce tsks, teasingly. “He wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” he chides.  
   
“He tells me everything,” Tony says, blasé. “I think I should – call a cab, you know? Maybe pick up the car tomorrow, or send someone to… was that punch spiked or what?”  
   
“Billy might have slipped some vodka,” Pierce mutters, like he’s annoyed, “at a kid’s party, would you believe? Who would do something like that, huh?”  
   
Tony nods, agreeing. “So bad,” he says, not really thinking.  
   
“I don’t think he tells you everything,” Pierce says, as they step through the double doors into the salon. He pauses, brushes down Tony’s lapels. Tony gets distracted.  
   
“I don’t think he tells you everything,” Pierce repeats, loosening his tie while Tony’s forgotten how to speak. “You’d be surprised what alpha keep to themselves.”  
   
Tony frowns. “He’s – got secrets?”  
   
“I don’t know,” Pierce shrugs, “I assume so. Don’t we all?”  
   
“Steve doesn’t keep secrets. Not from me.”  
   
Pierce studies him, for a long time. Then: “Has he said anything to you?” He asks, voice low.  
   
Tony blinks at him, uncomprehending. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
   
“Sorry,” Pierce says, apologetic, calm and smooth. “I meant: has he said anything to you? About me?”  
   
Tony thinks, hard. “He said that – he didn’t like it when I slept in your bed. After. After the party, a few weeks ago.” He doesn’t know why tells the truth, but it’s probably because it doesn’t matter.  
   
“Mmm,” Pierce hums, nodding. “And anything else? Did he say why?”  
   
Tony shakes his head, rapidly. “No,” he says, “he trusts you. He knows you were just helping, he just – gets jealous. He’s very protective,” Tony explains, “and… uh, he’s very protective. He wanted me to come here. He told me to come. Because he trusts you.”  
   
Pierce smiles. He lightly thumbs at a spot on Tony’s cheek, and then leans forward, conspiratorial. “And what about Fury?” He asks, cupping the back of Tony’s neck.  
   
Tony – just blinks, for a while. Pierce’s thumb nail is scratching against the short hairs on his nape. “Fury?” he asks, slowly. “I don’t understand.”  
   
“What has Fury said about me, Tony?”  
   
He frowns. “Nothing. Or – I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me anything,” he slurs. “Why, are you mad at him?”  
   
Pierce smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon,” he says instead of answering, “I have a gift for you.”  
   
“You shouldn’t have,” Tony starts, politely. The room is listing slightly, like he’s drunk. Pierce pulls open a drawer in a writing desk, fishes out a pretty bottle, lid tied with a pink bow.  
   
“It’s a present,” Pierce says, gently. “A reward.” He sets it on the bureau, beckons Tony over, takes his hand and gently twists it palm up. Pushes up the cuff of his shirt. “You’re very docile, did you know that Tony?”  
   
He frowns at him. Giggles. “What?”  
   
“Would you like to try it?” Pierce asks, indulgently. Tony feels like he’s being treated by a kindly old uncle. Like when Obie would bring him presents, before – well. Before all that.  
   
He nods. “Who’s it by?”  
   
Pierce looks at him, uncapping the bottle. “It’s – very expensive,” he says.  
   
That doesn’t mean anything. Tony has a lot of expensive perfume. “Well, I appreciate the thought,” he smiles, letting Pierce spritz it on his wrist.  
   
“Smell it,” he prompts, “go on. What do you think?”  
   
Tony sniffs his wrist. Blinks. He feels dizzy. “Smells like… like leather shoes.”  
   
Pierce laughs. “Are you sure? That’s very specific Tony.”  
   
There are colours blooming in his peripherals. He draws back his wrist, and stares at his hand. There are little spirals on his palm, twisting and squirming. Pierce presses his body against Tony’s, he tips his chin to the left. “What about here,” he asks, so quietly, but so loud. Whispers it into Tony’s ear. His hair stands on end. He shivers. Pierce’s finger delicately pulls forward his ear lobe, spritzes perfume onto his gland.  
   
Tony’s eyes bloat. Everything ripples. He looks at his hand. The squirming lines are worms. He whimpers, tries to brush them off on Pierce’s arm. “What,” he snorts, blowing air through his nose, trying to clear his sinuses, “what is this?”  
   
“It might have a mild hallucinogenic effect at this concentration,” Pierce concedes. “You should try to avoid panicking.”  
   
“What?”  
   
Pierce smiles at him, fatherly. He pats his shoulders, smoothes his lapels. “Would you like to go back to the party, Tony?”  
   
Tony stares. Pierce’s features are twisting. Blurring and smearing, flesh. “What have you – what is that?”  
   
Pierce cocks his head to the side, looks sad, or maybe – bemused. “Tony,” he says, softly. “You are one of the dumbest smart people I’ve ever met, did you know that? But then again, you are only omega.”  
   
“I don’t want to,” Tony mutters, backing away. He hits a wall. “I don’t want to… to have a party. I want to sleep now.”  
   
“You’re surprisingly lucid,” Pierce notes, taking out a cigarette, lighting up. “Sit down, if you have to. I’ve heard it can be pleasant. Oh, sure – try to call the suit,” he laughs. “That won’t work here.”  
   
Tony stabs his fist into the crook of his elbow, again and again. Nothing lights up. There are no tell-tale signs. Just receptors vibrating impotently, enough to let him know there’s no reception. Tony is drugged, right? Definitely drugged. He scented it, and it’s done this to him. He’s scented it before, and there are muddy puddles in his memory. He makes links. He makes a _connection._ Fury had said – on his desk. Pierce smells like home, always.  
   
“You know,” Pierce sighs, crouching low, flicking ash, “the worst part is, there’ll be some warm sunshine this evening but cloud increasing overnight, with a few outbreaks of rain possible later in the night, minimum temperature 40.”  
   
Tony stares at him. Pierce’s face is a blur of skin. “What?”  
   
“I said, the worst part is, this wasn’t even hard. I have never met such a poor judge of character in my life.”  
   
Tony groans. His head feels so full, fit to burst. He draws up his knees, digs his palms into his eyes. “Can you – can you call Steve?” He manages, and his legs give out, he slumps back against the wall, limbs like heavy weights. “I’m not feeling so good.”  
   
Pierce grins. He blows smoke in his face. “That’s a good idea, Tony,” he tells him. “We will call Steve, as soon as he gets back. Or, well – maybe a bit after,” he considers. “I might give him a chance, first. And I wouldn’t want you to go to waste.”  
   
“I don’t want to go to the party,” Tony mumbles, sliding down the wall.  
   
“You’re so eager to please, do you know that? I don’t think you do, really. You’re not aware of the extent that you do it. Sure, this helped,” and Pierce sprays his nose, so he wrinkles it and groans, “but it only heightens what’s already there. The rest was all you. Really, I should be thanking Howard. He really bred you right.”  
   
Tony’s head is stuffed with clouds. Spirals behind his eyes. He groans, limbs solid rock, mouth slack.  
   
“Shh,” Pierce soothes, hand on his knee, and then on his thigh. He exhales smoke, pats his leg. “We’re not going to rape you, Tony, is that what you’re worried about? Don’t you worry. We’re not going to hurt you. How could I ever hurt a sweet bitch when they’re as trusting as you? It’s too cruel, like kicking a dog.”  
   
“What did I – why are you…” Tony trails off. He thinks, the carpet is scratchy under his palms, and he hopes it isn’t bugs. “What did I do?”  
   
Pierce laughs, heartily. “Even now,” he says, “you think it’s something _you_ did. Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, “you’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, you’ve been perfect.”  
   
“You’ve… you’ve drugged me,” Tony slurs, half-indignant, half-terrified, or at least he would be, if his body let him work up the panic. “You bastard, you – “  
   
“You know how I know you’re clever? The other bitches we tested on could barely string a sentence together by now. Which is strange, because you really are _so_ responsive, Tony.” Fingers gripping his chin. Pulse slow, and steady. He wants to panic. He wishes he could panic.  
   
“The most responsive thing I have ever seen. And all this, just for me – the first one to unwrap all this goodness, hmm Tony?”  
   
“Yes,” he slurs, “yes, Sir.”  
   
Mr Cain laughs, even though his face is all twisted, melted, bushy eyebrows and – blonde hair, although it had been white before. “I’d love to see you in red, Tony. Next time, when the HYDRA has existed for a long time, you just haven’t noticed. We’ve been inside those pretty department stores, Tony, where they sell the nice brassieres. Would you like a nice brassiere? I can tell Fury, but between you me, he won’t be around for much longer.”  
   
Tony blinks sluggishly. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me,” he mutters, feverishly, “I’m just an omega.”  
   
“Yes you are,” Mr Cain agrees, snapping his fingers. There’s someone lifting him under his arms, picking him up like a child. He smells familiar.  
   
“Steve,” Tony mumbles, wrapping his arms around his alpha’s neck.  
   
Steve grunts. Tony groans, head lolling forward. “I don’t,” he mumbles, “I don’t want to go to the party.”  
   
He’s carrying him. To where? The car. They’ll go home in the car, he thinks. Steve hates the parties, he won’t make him. They’ll eat popcorn on the couch and watch TV. Steve will forget to take off his socks when they go to sleep.  
   
There’s a rolling cheer, a ripple of laughter and delighted screams. Tony frowns, buries his head in Steve’s neck; the light is too bright. Someone is pulling off his shoe – who is pulling off his shoe, if he’s in Steve’s arms? He cracks open his eyes, he can’t make out their faces. Blurred. Blur of pink skin and light hair. All of their hands.  
   
   
They bounce him on their knee, hands on his waist, thumbs stroking the broad lay of his ribs. His nipples feel tight, his skin feels hot. He enjoys it, when someone tips a cold glass of ice against his cheek, he sighs. They thumb his mouth. Jaw slack. They press the glass against his teeth, pour it onto his tongue. He swallows, and then he doesn’t, choking him. It dribbles on his chin, paints cold lines on his skin.  
   
Fingers in his hair. He’s shivering. Words are blurred, and if he opens his eyes, he sees terrible things. Someone leans close. They spit into his ear, words, Tony is sure. He doesn’t know what they say, he plays it safe. “Whatever you want me to be,” he whispers, slurring.  
   
The hands slide along the outside of his thigh. They snap the lace of the garter against his skin. They hike his panties up his hips. “You do who this wear for?” Someone asks him. “Wear did us for this?”  
   
There’s a thick thigh between his legs. His mouth droops open. He lifts his hands – and puts them on the shoulders in front of him. “Help me,” he tells him, and they twist their fingers in his hair, kiss him. It tastes like scotch, and southern fried chicken. When they pull away, Tony chases.  
   
“Eager,” they tell him. They put a glass to his lips. He drinks again.  
   
“My turn,” says another, and they pull him off of the knee, sprawl him out on the couch. This one is old, and he is large. The weight of him crushes, when he covers him entirely, starts to kiss him. Tony’s hands are above his head, unbound and useless. His fingers barely twitch. His legs are spread, one wrapped around the man’s back, the other in the air. He moans. The man starts to suck lines into his throat and Tony acquiesces, makes soft little sex sounds. It feels good. Everything feels good.    
   
So responsive, they say, when Tony doesn’t fight back.  
   
“You’re being too nice,” someone grunts. The man on top of him eases off; Tony arches his back, rolls his head. There’s a woman straddling his waist, and her nails are sharp. She grips Tony’s cheeks, scratches them down his throat until she finds his soft spot, then digs them into his nape.  
   
He must pass out, because when he’s coming to, it’s like being pushed into freezing water. Everything comes back too hard, and too sudden. She’s painting his lips. The crush of her body against his. The smell of them all. Tony frowns, feels panic stirring. “Please,” he mumbles against the tube of lipstick, smearing, “don’t tell my dad.”  
   
“He’s starting to agitate,” _Pierce_ says, and Tony knows that, firmly, it’s a fact he can hold on to. “Give him another dose.”  
   
“No,” he groans, trying to twist away. His hands can move now, even though it’s slow, and uncoordinated. He pushes the woman on his chest, confused. He doesn’t know where he is, really. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Someone slaps his face. It hurts, and then they –  
   
He breathes in, deeply. His mouth is covered. He inhales. It smells like lipstick, and vanilla perfume. Sweat and aftershave. He breathes, and breathes, and giggles. They take their hand away from his mouth, then.  
   
“He knows why he’s here, doesn’t he?” Pierce asks. Tony opens his eyes, fully, for the first time. He sees only smears of colour, peach and pink, black of tuxedos, cream carpets, yellowish light. All of them blurring together to something like a shade of scotch. “Ask him again.”  
   
He’s sitting up, between two alphas whose legs touch his. One of them cups his inner thigh with his palm, squeezes, rubs him softly. Tony is sensitive there. The alpha picks up his leg, strokes beneath the garter, trails his nails all the way to where skin meets silk-covered balls. He doesn’t remember the question.  
   
The alpha petting him twists, cups his throat. He’s smiling. His face is blurry, but Tony can make out his lips. He lifts his chin to kiss him, if that’s what he wants. The alpha puts his fingers in his mouth. “Do you know why you’re here?” He teases, stroking his cheek with his thumb.  
   
Tony’s teeth scrape his fingers. He shakes his head, spreads his legs.  
   
The alpha smears his saliva on his cheek. “You’re here to pay reparation,” he says, “because of your friend. The Captain. Do you understand?”  
   
Tony doesn’t even know what the words mean. He tries to lean forward again to kiss his mouth. He thinks that’s what they want from him, and he’s so hot he wants to give it to them.  
   
“Stupid, desperate little bitch,” another alpha laughs. He takes Tony’s other leg, so they’re spread. He starts spiralling patterns with his finger. He unhooks the garter from the belt.  
   
“You need to repay us, Tony,” they tell him, sternly. “Enough of that – look at me.” He taps his cheek with his fingers. “Are you listening? You need to repay us. Because of what the Captain has done. So that he’ll never do it again.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Uhm,” he mumbles, “okay.”  
   
“Okay?”  
   
Tony nods. The Captain, has done what? What has Steve done? Where was he, again? “Is he okay?” He slurs. “Is Steve okay?”  
   
There’s something thrown in his face, freezing, dumped over his head. Ice slips down his chest, burning cold liquor. The smell of it – he feels violently sick, he doesn’t know why. They laugh. “Go on, then, _Of Rogers,”_ he thinks they mock, “start paying your reparations.”  
   
It takes three of them to force him up to his feet, unsteady. Like a baby doe, one of them says.  They peel his panties back from his ass and someone laughs in his face when they stuff the ice in there, cold and flinching. He jerks, scrabbles his feet against their grip. “You debauched little fuck,” the ice-man grins, taking his reparation as a bruising kiss and freezing, wet panties.  
   
They pass him around. He disappears from inside himself.  
   
“Dance for us, Tony,” they laugh, and stand him up, all their fingers stroking as they leave him. He puts out his hands to balance himself, stumbles; his legs aren’t steady, his vertigo is so bad he doesn’t know what is up and what is down. He doesn’t know why he’s standing. He remembers: fear, and braces his arms to fire his repulsors, but there’s no burn, no acrid stench, and he turns to look at his palms. They’re bare. He’s bare. He realises, he’s almost naked.  
   
He lurches, drunk on his feet, unable to keep his balance. People are _laughing._ He shakes his head, tries to shake everything clear, but it makes it worse. “Dad,” he mumbles, hot, fevered, hands shaking, “Daddy, I don’t want…”  
   
“Shake your ass, Stark!”  
   
Tony tries to twist his neck in the direction of the voice. In front of him, blurry: men, and some women. Sitting on couches, coffee table. Everything sort of blurs into peach, peach and gold with some red. All their skin is peach. Their hairs are blonde and brown and white. Richards doesn’t sit with them; he’s all alone, in his chair, glass with ice. Tony recoils, rubs his eyes, he –  
   
“You’re going to dance with me,” someone is whispering in his ear, at his back, taking his wrist, wrapping their arm around his waist. He smells younger than the rest. Like cologne, and something sweet. “C’mon, Stark,” they urge, swaying him from side to side, “put some effort into it. I know you love to dance.”  
   
Tony is stiff. His head falls back onto their shoulder. He stares at the ceiling, hazy yellow light, oak. Lips tickle his ear. He shivers.  
   
“Wait,” someone is laughing, and then hysterically, it’s spreading around all of them. “Get the soldier.”  
   
He hears, _that’s too bad,_ and, _does he even know how,_ and, _that’s fucking awful,_ and, _God, don’t you just wish Rogers was here to see this?_  
   
Richards laughs. Pierce laughs. “He will be,” he says. “Go on,” he allows, indulgently. Tony sees him, sitting there, in his chair. He has one, clarifying thought: you will not win.  
   
“Do you know how to dance, soldier?” One of them asks. “I’m sure you do, somewhere. I’m sure you used to be quite the bitch-magnet, huh?”  
   
“I wonder if he’s even touched an O in years.”  
   
“Oh sure,” someone giggles, “to strangle them.”  
   
He hears, we’ve had him beat them. He hears, he knows how it works. We’ve used him a few times at other parties.  
   
Tony skitters on his feet. The solider is stiff. The Kevlar is rough against his chest. They have to move the solider, so he knows how to do it. Arm around Tony’s waist, the other gripping his hand, not even holding it. Tony’s legs give out. His face smears into his shoulder. They have him waltz Tony around the floor, feet slack, burning when they’re dragged around the carpet.  
   
Isn’t it beautiful, they say. If only Arnim was here to see it.  
   
Tony slits open his eyes. He can see just a touch of the soldier’s skin. Stubble. When his eyes start playing tricks on him, and the stubble seems to grow flowers, he shuts them. There’s music. The soldier is – gentle. He shifts his grip. His fingers do not dig into Tony’s waist, but hold him. Careful. Precise.  
   
“Help me,” Tony whispers.  
   
The soldier stiffens.  
   
“Take off the mask, Soldier,” someone orders. “When was the last time you were kissed?”  
   
The mask drops. The soldier is –  
   
Tony frowns. He has seen so many strange faces today, in places they shouldn’t be.  
   
Someone grips the back of his head. “Kiss him,” they hiss, and spit on his face. “Go on. Do our resident stud the honour, From Stark.”  
   
Tony kisses him, because it’s what he knows to do.  
   
“Put some effort into it,” they say. They slap the back of the Soldier’s head, so their teeth knock together. He doesn’t taste bad. He tastes clean, at the very least. He feels familiar. He doesn’t bite or scrape. The kiss is soft.  
   
“You hard yet?” They mock the Soldier. Time stretches, and they still kiss, until either is given permission to stop. Tony thinks: this man is not willing. He knows it, feels it in his bones. Pities him. At least Tony – he’s used to it, by now. He was born for it.  
   
“They should fuck,” someone says, abruptly. The laughter stops. The song runs out.  
   
“What?” someone replies.  
   
“They should fuck. We should make them fuck.”  
   
Silence. Then: “We should film it. Send it to Rogers.”  
   
Tony can’t move. He barely tightens his fingers in the Soldier’s uniform. “Bucky Barnes,” he murmurs, whispers, more air than word, “I know you.”  
   
The Soldier drops him, abrupt. Tony’s legs will not support him, he sprawls on the floor. The spell is broken. “I think that’s enough,” Pierce interrupts. “We don’t want to break him, do we?”  
   
   
Tony wakes up with his panties in his mouth.  
   
He jerks. He can barely lift his head. His face feels swollen, his brain feels swollen. He’s tied to a chair. Ankles and wrists, except for a garter belt no one bothered to remove.  
   
He pokes the wet silk with his tongue, forces it out of his mouth, tasting of scotch. It falls into his lap. He picks up his head.  
   
Pierce’s legs are crossed. Paper in one hand, stirring coffee in the other. He’s still in his armchair, except _he’s_ clearly slept, showered. Tony says nothing. He feels something rising inside him, like venom, like spit. “He’s going to kill you,” he rasps.  
   
Pierce sighs. Folds his paper, fishes out – Tony’s cellphone. “You can tell him that,” he says. “He called me last night, you know. He finished his mission, couldn’t get a hold of you. Thought I might know where you’d gone.”  
   
He flips the screen in his face. Nine missed calls, seventeen missed messages, four voicemails. Tony shuts his eyes. For the first time, he wants to cry.  
   
“You’re going to talk to him,” Pierce explains. “You can be honest. Just say, I’m with Secretary Pierce. I paid for your intransigence last night. If you don’t meet him this evening, here, no weapons, no friends, I’m going to pay again.”  
   
The chair creaks. Tony lifts his gaze. “He’s going to kill you,” he says again, as Pierce dials, hovers the cell by his ear.  
   
“Whatever you want to think, Tony.”  
   
“He doesn’t lose.”  
   
Pierce frowns at him, as if confused. “Then why are you naked in my chair?”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. Steve answers. “Jesus, Tony,” he huffs, “where the hell have you been?”  
   
“Steve,” he says, softly. “Hi, darling. Good to hear your voice.”  
   
“Are you okay? I got in yesterday and Jarvis said he hadn’t even heard from you, not in hours, and that you never came back from Pierce’s party. I worried, sorry, I worried, alright? You know how I get.”  
   
Tony smiles, weakly. “Yeah,” he laughs, eyes wet. “I do.”  
   
“So where are you?”  
   
Tony’s eyes drift upwards. Pierce looks at him, expectantly. “I’m – I’m fine,” he says, carefully, and then Pierce is pulling back his head, hand in his hair. “I’m with Pierce,” he says.  
   
“Oh. Oh, it’s just – he said you left. Did something happen?”  
   
Tony winces as Pierce twists his fingers.  “Steve,” he says, croaky.  
   
“Tony. Is something wrong?”  
   
“Steve, I’m so sorry.”  
   
A beat. “For what, sweetheart?”  
   
Pierce shakes him, impatient. “I never left, last night. Pierce isn’t – he isn’t – he isn’t our friend – “  
   
He strokes Tony’s hair, fatherly. “Keep going,” he urges.  
   
“He isn’t our friend, Steve. And he’s going to try to trick you. It’s what he does, he’s a liar, Steve, and he wants you dead, he hates you more than anything. No matter what he tells you, don’t listen, he won’t kill me – “  
   
Pierce sighs, takes back the phone. “Sorry,” he says, still stroking Tony’s hair gently, “he’s exhausted. I thought he’d be more coherent.”  
   
Tony can’t really make out what Steve says, next. Pierce laughs. “Oh no,” he says, “there were consequences. The loyalists were glad of his company,” he smiles down at him, thumbing his brow softly, scratching idly at what might be some dried fluid from someone else’s body. “He is _such_ good company, as I’m sure you know.”  
   
Tony lurches his body, rattles the chair. Pierce shushes him. “Well,” he answers, “you haven’t been entirely truthful with him either, Steven. I know you’ve been poking your nose where it didn’t belong. You should have known there would be consequences.”  
   
He hears Steve voice, short, sharp. “Well now,” he says, “this is the way the alpha do business, Captain.”  
   
Tony rolls his head, groans. “Don’t listen to him, Steve,” he rasps, out of desperation, out of anger, out of a need to do something other than sit here like a dumb bitch. “He’s a _liar._ Whatever he does, I can take it – “  
   
Pierce frowns at him, stuffs his panties back into his mouth. “I don’t care what you know,” he says, trailing his finger down the slope of Tony’s nose, “I just want to talk. Man to man, alpha to alpha. You might even like what I have to say, and then… well. You’ll get him back, safe and sound. Unhurt, I promise. Well. Alive, at least.”  
   
Tony spits them back out. “Do not _listen_ to him! He’ll fucking hurt me anyway, Steve, don’t be a stupid boy and think past your prick, if he’s got a plan it doesn’t matter what – “  
   
“I think he wants to talk,” Pierce says, tapping the loudspeaker. “There, Tony, how about you say your piece before you blow a blood vessel.”  
   
“I – Steve,” he starts again, desperately, “ _please,_ don’t do anything stupid – “  
   
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Steve says, calmly. “Are you okay, Tony? Are you injured.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, shuts his eyes. “Not injured,” he croaks.  
   
“Okay,” Steve continues, gently, “I’m glad. Pierce, I hope that so long as we come to an agreement, that can be allowed to stand.”  
   
Pierce’s smile is more of a sneer. “Consider it your bond. Every hour you’re not here, he’ll be hurt. If you don’t show up?” He tsks. “He has such a pretty face, you know?”  
   
“You shouldn’t have made this personal, Pierce.” Steve’s voice is measured, which is more dangerous than anything. “I think you’ve misjudged.”  
   
“I doubt it. We have fun last night, Captain. If you don’t show up, it won’t be so fun for Tony. I can’t say he’ll enjoy himself much.”  
   
“I love you, Tony,” Steve tells him.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, shutting his eyes. “Same.” There’s a headache thumping at the back of his skull. Pierce says more, about meeting times, and coodinates, and hailing HYDRA. Tony thinks, blessedly, that he can’t remember anything from last night, other than a revulsion at the thought of being touched, other than the fluids on his skin where they may have used him, other than – a face, sharp in his vision. No. No, that can’t be right. A hallucination. His brain imposing the closest thing to Steve on an otherwise similar face. Bucky Barnes wasn’t in this house last night.  
   
“Ah,” Pierce says over his head, discarding his phone to the side, brushing down his hands. “Rumlow. So glad you could make it.”  
   
Tony breathes, slowly, evenly.  
   
“Sorry I missed the party.”  
   
“Well,” Pierce says, that warm, friendly voice, “I’m sure you can make up for it. Rogers will be joining us tonight, I trust you’ll make sure Tony’s good and ready.”  
   
Rumlow must be wearing leather gloves. He slides his hand across Tony’s naked shoulders, up his nape, fists in his hair. Pulls back his head. “Look at me,” he orders, viciously.  
   
Tony opens his eyes. He does not look at Rumlow.  
   
“Don’t hurt him too badly, now,” Pierce warns. “Nothing broken. Just get him scenting of something good and scared, see how much of Rogers we can lift from him.”  
   
He’s smiling again. It seems to say, _you pretty idiot._ Tony shuts his eyes, so he doesn’t have to see it. He holds his breath when they spray him until the inevitable gasping. This time, Tony doesn’t float. He feels it for what it is, so easily hidden before. Fury had told him, he’d said, knowing that it’s a drug means it’s no longer unnoticeable. But it still scents familiar, desperately. He’s smelt leather, and grass, and cologne. Today, in Pierce’s salon, with Rumlow pushing a truncheon against his throat, all he smells is Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm sorry i just love fucking people up
> 
> i won't lie i'm a bit stuck on how to take it next. how do ppl want pierce/steve's show-down to go? i know what happens AFTER, i just haven't quite figured out how their meeting is going to play out, so your thoughts are really appreciated
> 
> and yeah, your thoughts on steve/tony/pierce's behaviour/actions etc. is always appreciated.
> 
> and sorry, again.


	19. muzzle

Pierce brushes lint from Tony’s shoulders. He straightens the collar threaded around his throat. Let’s talk psychology, he says, tucking an errant strand of hair neatly beneath the strap of the muzzle around the lower half of Tony’s face.  
   
Tony blinks at him, placidly. He hurts a lot. He’s also close to colony collapse of the brain; the muzzle filters in Pierce’s drug, constant, stops the flow of fresh air. He’s higher than a helicarrier.  
   
His eyes drift to the soldier. _We’re matching,_ he thinks. And then, deliriously: _twinsies._  
   
Pierce taps his cheek twice, gently. Tony, he says, reproachful, schooling. Are you paying attention?  
   
Tony drags his eyes back to Pierce. The chair is hard on his bruised, beaten body; it’s even worse to sit on the welts Rumlow gleefully put on his ass. The pants (traditional cut, above the ankle, no pockets, high-waisted) are rough on his skin. The collar feels too tight. Tony feels every fibre intimately, excessively. And he’s trying not to think about why or how Pierce already has a closet full of traditional omegan clothes tailored exactly to his measurements.  
   
Psychology, Pierce says again. His figure doubles, triples in Tony’s view. He blinks, frowns drowsily. _Psychology,_ he thinks. He isn’t wearing shoes. He digs his toes into the carpet.  
   
Pierce stubs out a cigarette in an ash-try. “It won’t be hard,” he’s saying. “I know you don’t believe me, but there are studies that prove it. They’ve repressed them, of course,” he tells Tony earnestly, “they repress anything that goes again the current _narrative.”_ He stresses the word, _narrative,_ like fifty year of hard-won omega liberation is nothing but a trick, an allowance, or maybe some kind of elite scheme to stop the breeding of healthy children.  
   
He tips his head to the side, exhales smoke, eyes soft. He checks his watch. “It won’t be hard,” he says again, reassuringly. “After a few months, after a year – you won’t even think about what you’ve lost. You’re so responsive. You’ll always do what makes your alpha happy.”  
   
Tony thinks, there’s truth in that. He shuts his eyes.  
   
“I hope,” Pierce murmurs, “that he won’t be late.” Tony wonders what he’ll do to him if Steve is late, or if Steve does not come. He doesn’t want to be scared, but he is – a mindless kind of fear, simple, an aversion to pain, a dread in his stomach.  
   
The inside of the muzzle scents like the dusty, well-worn cover of Steve’s couch. The more he thinks about it, the heavier his head becomes. Pierce tells him to look at him, and he obeys, immediately; there’s so little space left in his head for independent thought.  
   
The vest is too tight. Pierce had tied it, lovingly, the way Steve might before a night out. Steve never pulled the stays this tight. He never wanted Tony’s waist to be so sharp he could barely breath. His ribs are so bruised, and he can’t breathe. He hurts to badly, and he’s hemmed in with this final torture, a corset that’s too damn tight. He thinks, he might be bleeding through his shirt. He thinks, he wishes he could squeeze the life out of Pierce the way the heavy fabric is squeezing the life out of him.  
   
“You,” Pierce tells him, gently cupping his cheek, “are going to be wonderful, understand? You won’t even notice. I promise, Tony – you’ll come to love it, this new world we’re going to build.”  
   
The soldier in the doorway. Tony sees him, in his peripherals; he tries not flinch. The soldier says, he’s here. Pierce leans back, heavily. Sighs, and brushes down his pants.  
   
Well send him in, he says.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. There’s blood in his mouth, and the muzzle means he can’t spit it out. The soldier is standing behind him, right behind him, close enough that Tony can feel the brush of his Kevlar against his hair. He thinks about the soldier’s hands, and the taste of his lips.  
   
 _Bucky,_ he thinks drowsily, and loses the train of thought.  
   
He scents Steve, even if he can’t see him. Pierce is talking. Tony is… so zoned out. He is so, totally, fucking gone.  
   
“Let me paint you a picture,” Pierce is saying. “Are you listening, Captain, because I’m only going to say this once.”  
   
Steve replies, what have you done to him. _What have you done to him._ Meaning him, _me._ Open your eyes, he urges himself, open your eyes. Look at him, Tony, show him you’re fine.  
   
His left eye is swollen all shut. Rumlow had – picked up his head, slammed it into the floor once, twice. He’d beaten him real good. Tony feels more like pulp than anything else, but he thinks the drug is blocking the worst of the pain. He tries, again, to open his eyes; Steve is blurry mass in his right eye, a slit of colour in his left.  
   
But he twitches his fingers, like he’s grasping. _Hi,_ he thinks it says. And then even that little expenditure exhausts him, and his head rolls back off his shoulders. He groans.  
   
Pierce tsks. He gently scratches his fingers through the back of Tony’s hair, tips his head forward so it’s hanging against his chest.  
   
Don’t you fucking touch him, Steve says.  
   
I’ll do what I like, Pierce answers, petting his hair. Would you like a cigarette?  
   
Head pressed forward, and getting air down his trachea is like breathing mud through a straw. His lungs won’t expand enough, the vest doesn’t let them, and he can’t gulp because of the gag.  
   
We talk when he talks, Steve demands. Take off the gag.  
   
Pierce laughs, claps the back of Tony’s head, heavily. “I don’t think he can talk,” he says. Tony hears the flick of his lighter, the ignition. Spark, and then smoke.  
   
He exhales in Tony’s face. He feels himself flinch; the tag on the collar jingles, prettily. He doesn’t know what it says. Someone might have told him, but he can’t remember now. The smoke stings his eyes – well, eye. The one that can open, at least. And the quick, sharp movement sends pain cascading down his ribs, lungs constricting.  
   
Head back, eye wide and straining – he can’t breathe.  
   
He hears Steve move, something heavy and fast, and the immediate sound of a gun cocking. He thinks, it’s not aimed at Steve. He can feel the cold, cool steel pressed against the back of his neck.  
   
“He is… expendable,” Pierce says, regrettably. “I wish he wasn’t, but he is. So you should sit yourself back down. Or else, the soldier will shoot him, and my men will shoot you. And we don’t want that, do we? No unnecessary blood-shed, when this could all be resolved so peacefully.”  
   
You should have known when you took him, Steve says heavily, that I would never give you peace.  
   
Pierce tsks. Tips ash in the tray. Tony hears him cross his legs, one to the other. “Anyway,” he sighs, like he never heard him, “as I was saying to our sweet Tony earlier: let’s talk psychology.”  
   
I know all about your _psychology,_ Steve sneers. I know all about your brand of science.  
   
“This must be so hard for you,” Pierce seems to smirk. “An alpha like you, sitting there, hands on your knees like a good boy. Biology seems to dictate that, at a certain point, an alpha like you would come to throw me down. But, here we are.”  
   
I wouldn’t sound so sure, Steve says.  
   
“Quite.”  
   
Pierce’s chair creaks, slightly, as he leans forward to tip ash into the tray. Tony’s shoulder heave; his eyes are watering. It’s torture. His hands shake – he makes his fingers into claws, then into fists, then splays them out, as if he can suck in oxygen through their tips.  
   
“Of course, I know what you want, Steve. We’ve even talked about it before, you and I. You were always very forthcoming, and I think it’s sweet. I want to give you that, you know? I can give you what you want.” He clears his throat. “I’ll need a successor, one day.”  
   
You must be out of your fucking mind, is what Steve answers.  
   
“Yeah, maybe,” Pierce agrees. “But like I said, let me paint you a picture. Now that Fury’s dead, you’re probably going to find yourself in need of new employment.”  
   
Tony whimpers. _Fury._ No, not possible. The old man can’t die. He’s unkillable, he’s – fucking eternal.  
   
“Now – I’m not saying straight away. You’ll need time to prove yourself, of course, prove your loyalty. Maybe some… education. But in a couple years – you’re a fine specimen, Steve. Bred to lead, hmm? Just like this one,” Pierce claps Tony’s knee, he flinches, “is bred to be at your side. Or at least, at the side of someone like you.”  
   
 _Like me,_ goes unsaid.  
   
“You’ll get him nice and fat with your pups,” Pierce says pleasantly, “he’ll be happy, that way, you know he would. A good position – high commander? General supreme? It’s up to you, Captain. It’s all at the tips of your fingers, if you want it.”  
   
And when I refuse, Steve asks.  
   
Pierce shrugs. “I won’t kill you,” he says, “you’re far too useful for that. You _will_ breed your genes, that’s for certain. You and my soldier both. Tony’s as good a vessel as any. I’ll put you in the chair, same as him,” he nods at the soldier, “I’ll fry your brains. You’ll kill when I ask you, you’ll fuck when I ask you, like a good stud. And I get to keep our lovely Tony all to myself. Does that sound more agreeable to your famous _principles,_ Captain?”  
   
Yeah, I guess so, Steve shrugs. Of course, you won’t win.  
   
Tony’s shoulders heave, his body shaking with the effort of just _breathing._ He chokes, behind the gag. He throws back his head, scrabbles his feet against the floor.  
   
He can’t breathe, Steve realises, panicked. Take off the gag, he can’t breathe.  
   
“It does seem that way,” Pierce comments, like it’s a curiosity. He seems to relent, sighing. “Soldier,” he orders, waving his hand.  
   
The soldier’s rough fingers clip the straps at the back of Tony’s head; gently, he cups the muzzle, pulls it away from Tony’s face as he takes in these great, gulping, gasping breaths. Like a landed fish. “Tight,” he wheezes, because it’s the only word he can find, “much – much tight,” he muddles, hand pressed to his stomach.  
   
Pierce tsks. “But you look so pretty in the vest, Tony, it brings out your waist.”  
   
Steve stands, and the table shakes. The gun is pressed to the back of Tony’s head. Pierce holds out his hand, warning.  
   
“No sudden movements, Captain. We wouldn’t want to confuse our soldier, now.”  
   
Take it off him, Steve demands, through gritted teeth, you take it off him right now.  
   
Slowly, Pierce jerks his chin at the soldier. “Do it,” he tells him. “Do what the Captain has asked.”  
   
Fingers fumbling with the laces on Tony’s back. That’s the point of these vests; they’re so pretty, but you can’t put them on without help. Can’t take them off without help, either. Clothes for the owned; your alpha will decide when you’re clothed, and when you’re naked, and there’s nothing you can do about it.  
   
The soldier rips through the bindings with his knife. Immediately, Tony sucks in deep breaths, hands shaking, but finally, _finally,_ able to breathe some fucking air that isn’t dosed with chemical X. The normal air scents almost astringent without the sweet, cloying drug in his nostrils.  
   
The tag on his neck jingles. Pierce smirks; Tony tracks him with his good eye, chest still heaving. He picks at the tag. “Do you know what this says, Captain?”  
   
Tony, Steve answers instead, can you talk, sweetheart? Tell me you’re okay. Where are you hurt?  
   
“It says, property of HYDRA. The soldier has one, too. Because that’s what they are. Do you like my pets, Steve?”  
   
Tony knows Steve can only handle so much humiliation before he cracks. He doesn’t want his brains smeared on the wall. He suspects Pierce doesn’t care much either way. So he groans, lets his head loll onto his shoulder.  
   
“You know about the helicarriers,” Pierce continues, “you can thank him for those.”  
   
He might be pointing at Tony. _No fair,_ he thinks, drowsily. It’s not like Tony _knew._  
   
I think I know who to blame, Steve grits.  
   
“Do you?” Pierce laughs. “Well. You don’t have a track record of holding _good judgement,_ Captain. You missed me, for one. Sent _him_ straight into my home. You couldn’t pick up the threat from a mile away. What does that make you?”  
   
It means you’re a good liar, Steve tells him.  
   
“Am I really,” Pierce muses. “So, let’s play this game – I give you three statements, which one’s a lie? Fury isn’t a dead, he’s a been an alien decoy since the 90s. Or maybe, this soldier isn’t a soldier at all, it’s Bucky Barnes, your old friend. Or, actually, Stark is carrying, and the baby is mine. Which is it, Rogers? Because one of them’s true.”  
   
Pierce can barely hold in his snicker of laughter. The solider is pressed against Tony’s back. His hands, strangely, are resting on Tony’s shoulders. Gentle.  
   
I didn’t come here to play games, Steve answers.  
   
The soldier, pressed up against his back. He feels something, carefully slotted between the gap in the backrest and seat of the chair; hard, metal. Tony feels a tug of adrenalin – the _knife,_ folded, ready to be tucked away.  
   
Why? Does Bucky know? Is Bucky on – their side? Does he realise who he is, and where he is? Or is this a trick. Is Tony mistaken. It’s possible that the knife has just fallen, delicately balanced on the seat of Tony’s chair, and if he moves an inch it’ll hit the floor and they’ll find it and his chance will be gone.  
   
Pierce stubs out his cigarette, fiddles with the pack, starts a new one. Pierce pretends he’s unconcerned, but Tony knows: he smokes when he’s nervous. He pockets the lighter.  
   
Sniffing, he inhales. “Captain,” he starts, “I think, it’s time you gave me your answer.”  
   
I’ve given you my answer, Steve says bluntly, and Tony feels that stupid rush of pride. _That’s my man,_ he thinks, deliriously.  
   
“I won’t ask again,” Pierce warns.  
   
Good, Steve replies.  
   
Pierce gives a great sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well alright then,” he says, resigned. “This is a pity. We could have done great things together.”  
   
And Steve looks at Tony. Tony doesn’t want to look at him; he’s ashamed. But he thinks, Steve wants to see him, so he looks back. And Steve, in all his glory, like a bright brush of colour, like cool water on a hot day. _Steve,_ he thinks, feeling choked. God. Steve, please. I want us to be okay. I’m going to do everything I can to make us okay again.  
   
“Soldier,” Pierce says, gently. “You can do as we agreed.”  
   
Steve lurches away even before Pierce has finished, the shots from the soldier’s rifles slamming into the wall behind where he had sat. Tony starts to stand, as if he could somehow make his way to Steve, throw himself between him and weapon, but Pierce is already gripping the back of his neck, pinching.  
   
“Not so fast, hmm?” He says, breath hot. “Let’s you and me take a trip to the salon.”  
   
Tony hears the gunshots, again, rattling. Then, glass breaking. Thudding. Silence.  
   
“I’m sure,” Pierce says heavily, throwing him down onto a couch, “that those boys will work it out, hmm? Of course – you know the truth by now, I’m sure. Unless you don’t remember. You did look pretty,” Pierce comments, pouring himself a finger from a heavy glass decanter, “when he was kissing you. I think I’m going to have him breed you. Good genes.”  
   
Tony has a knife. He had curled it in his fist in the disturbance, pushed his hand under a cushion on the couch, hidden.  
   
He coughs, bile and blood. “You don’t make this easy, hmm, Tony?” Pierce says quietly, dabbing at his chin with a napkin.  
   
Tony nods. His collar clinks.  
   
“I’m sorry, about your Captain,” Pierce tells him, genuinely regretful. “He’ll be dead soon. Or at least – the man you knew will be dead fairly shortly. An unfortunate turn of events,” he sighs.  
   
He straightens the napkin. He brushes his knuckles over Tony’s cheek.  
   
“You’ll be safe, though,” Pierce assures him, softly. “I’m going to keep you safe, Tony. Better than the Captain does, or Stane did, or Howard ever tried to, if he ever tried at all.” A beat; then: “I was there that night, you know.”  
   
Pierce’s face is hazy. It’s the strangest thing, to _look_ someone straight in the face and no longer be able to recognise their features.  
   
“I worried, at first, I thought – maybe you recognised me.” Pierce tsks. “Those brutes,” he says, “the things they did to you.”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything, because he can’t.  
   
“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t help you,” Pierce sighs, sorrowful, stroking Tony’s hair, petting him again and again like a dog on his lap. “The answer is, expediency. I knew, your father knew. Understand? He _knew,_ Tony. They weren’t supposed to go so far,” Pierce admits, “I don’t think he wanted you to be damaged like that, but things got out of hand. Look at you,” he murmurs, “you don’t understand, do you? We had _pictures,_ Tony. We were going to blackmail them all, hold them to account.”  
   
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Pierce shrugs. “He wasn’t HYDRA, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although, neither was I, back then,” he muses. “Different time, I suppose. I wanted different things.”  
   
Tony’s hand is wedged beneath a pillow. He curls his fingers around the switchblade, testing, finding the release through touch.  
   
“You, though. You were beautiful that night,” Pierce says, hushed. He strokes his knuckles across Tony’s cheek, ignores his flinch. “All long limbs and – those pretty eyes, huh? You cried, then.” Pierce’s fingers reach around his throat. “Could you cry for me now, Tony? I would like you to cry. All this time, you haven’t, not really. What is it? Am I not strong enough?”  
   
He crushes. Tony coughs. He flicks open the blade, and he aims for Pierce’s eyes.  
   
He grips Tony’s wrist, hard, unyielding, tsks. “You’ll have to try better than that, Stark,” he grits out, squeezing and squeezing.  
   
Tony roars with pain, lurches forward; Pierce pushes against him, thighs on Tony’s thighs, hands on Tony’s arms, pressing until his wrist ‘pops’ in its socket. Tony slams his head against Pierce’s once, and twice, dazes him enough to snap his shitty, broken wrist back out of his grip, drop the knife, snatch at it with his good hand –  
   
Pierce snarls, reaches for it again, and this time Tony strikes him, slashing wildly, catching his cheek deep. Pierce stumbles back, Tony stands, and then they’re both there, opposites. A stand-off. One shaky, drugged omega with bruised ribs and a broken wrist. The head of HYDRA.  
   
Pierce dabs at his cheek, spits blood. The knife caught him deep; had punctured the skin, into his mouth. “Bitch,” he croaks, frothy red bubbles dribbling out the side of his wound.  
   
Tony holds out the knife, warning; his good hand is shaking, still. Pierce laughs. “So what was it,” he asks, “you steal it while I wasn’t looking? Did you bat your pretty lashes at the soldier, is that it?”  
   
Tony doesn’t anything. Because he can’t.  
   
And Pierce stares at him, realisation slowly dawning. “He gave it to you,” he states. “Why?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. It’s the truth – he doesn’t know. His guess is as good as Pierce’s.  
   
“But he’s out there, right now, bringing your Captain to heel,” Pierce says, breathing ragged. “Why?”  
   
Tony inches closer, pressing the knife between them. Pierce takes a step back.  
   
“You’re not going to hurt me,” he says, confidently. “You don’t know how. You’ve never killed with your own two hands in your life.”  
   
True. But Steve has taught him.  
   
“I figured – that’s why it’s a suit, hmm? So you don’t even have to think about – getting your hands dirty.” Pierce’s laugh is a burbling, thick thing. “You built yourself a _suit,”_ he wheezes, “to _protect_ yourself. Even – even the thing you think makes your alpha makes you so helplessly omega, Stark.”  
   
Tony’s never thought he was alpha. He’s only ever wanted to be what he was.  
   
He lunges, and Pierce scatters back, into a side table, throws it in his path, laughing, wheezing. “You’re too slow,” he mocks, “you won’t be able to do it, Stark. Give up. Give in.”  
   
The decanter, with all of Pierce’s sweet whiskey, falls onto the carpet, soaks there like blood.  
   
Tony pushes his good hand beneath him, against the table-top. Forces himself straight. Pierce is right. He won’t be able reach him, not in this state.  
   
He drops the knife.  
   
Pierce nods. “Good,” he says, “good boy. You see?” He taps the side of his head, twice. “You’re learning.”  
   
Tony has to get onto the floor. His thoughts connect this, loosely. He’s omega, so he kneels. Pierce likes this, he knows. Pierce steps forward. His boots step into the soaked-out whiskey. He kicks the knife away, and it skitters under the couch.  
   
And he crouches. Close to the ground, close to Tony. “You,” he murmurs, caressing his cheek. It’s almost gentle. Tony feels his eyes shut. He thinks, it’s probably true. Tony probably would learn to forget, eventually.  
   
He kisses him, quick, unflinching. If Pierce is startled, he only shows it by curling his hands in the front of Tony’s shirt. Tony, understand, is so good at this; they _made_ him good at this, all of them. It’s their own fault. They shouldn’t have – shouldn’t have bred him to be used if they didn’t want him to be so good at it.  
   
Tony leans into it. Pierce’s eyes are shut. He wraps his right hand in Pierce’s hair, slides them there, lovingly, a caress, the same way he touches Steve. And he curls his left hand, wrist broken,  around the lip of the decanter, heavy crystal.  
   
 _Goodbye Pierce,_ he thinks, and cracks it into his skull.  
   
It doesn’t kill him, not straight away – he gives a very feeble attempt at resistance with the side of his head bloody and a little squishy. His grip isn’t great, on account of the broken wrist. Tony kneels over his body, uses his right hand to hit him again, and again; the thuds are dull. Pierce doesn’t scream. Eventually, he’s staring up at him, blinking, mouth twitching slightly like a fish on a hook.  
   
Tony is omega, which means he is in control of his anger, always. Good omegas are not quick to temper, and do not lash out in anger. He’s not some alpha, full of rage.  
   
Standing, he stumbles to the cabinet, wrist tucked against his chest. He picks out a single-malt, pulls the stopper with his teeth. Downs it quick, wincing. The pain is going to hit him, soon, and he doesn’t want to be here when it does.  
   
Pierce groans on the floor, makes a sound a like sick animal. Tony swills the drink in his mouth, gargles, spits the taste of him onto the floor. He brushes the back of his hand across his mouth. His spit is mixed with blood.  
   
Without much fuss, he pours the rest over Pierce’s face. Then, unstoppers another, this time pure vodka, and does the same. He shuffles around Pierce’s jacket, his rising and falling chest, to pick up his lighter.  
   
Goodbye, Pierce, he thinks again.  
   
The weird, screaming moans don’t last too long. Doesn’t matter. Tony’s already gone.  
   
   
He knows he finds Steve, because he remembers blood, and panic, and thinking he was hurt, smelling it all over him. He remembers, maybe, _it’s alright, sweetheart, I’m alright. He’s gone. You’re safe now, we both are._  
   
But he can’t remember standing on Pierce’s patio, with Steve near lifeless, bloody and beaten. He doesn’t remember shaking him until he woke, slowly, only to take Tony’s shoulders and squeeze him, and sob, even while the house smoked behind them. He doesn’t remember that. In Tony’s memory, what’s left of it, Steve shushes him gently and that’s that.  
   
He truly can’t recall how they got where they are now, wherever this place is. Dark, and musty. Smells like old leaves and leather. The bed is a cot, the mattress is thin. He smells: coffee, stew. Hears water boiling.  
   
He buries his head into the pillow. Not alone; Steve at his back. And – _damp._ That’s the word. Air smells damp. Like they’re buried, safe, beneath a lake.  
   
Maybe it would have felt claustrophobic once. But now it’s more protected than Tony’s ever felt. Who could hurt him here, safe under the earth, with Steve at his back. The thing – the pain, or tension, or fear – in his stomach dislodges, then dissolves. He forgets.  
   
Because this is safe. The rest is yesterday’s trouble. Tomorrow’s problem. Here, and now, is good.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started a patreon for those of u who wanted more snippets/outtakes/old work/previews etc. there's more about it on my [tumblr](https://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/). i'm not witholding anything on it, all my stories are posted here, it's just for it u liked my older stuff and want draft works
> 
> sorry this took so long to get out, we are nearing the end. i promise, next up: fluff. pls tell me your fluffy-imaginings for next chapter, i need it.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm thinking about just uploading new chapters whenever. They're all pretty unconnected. If people are interested based on the tags and what you've read, let me know and I'll post more!
> 
> I do actually have a lot plotted. It's mostly angsty sex. Your thoughts on characterisation are appreciated!


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